Merchant of Death
by setlib
Summary: Scorned. Outcast. Hunted. Gu Dong-mae was forced to flee his home while he was just a boy. Life dealt him only hard blows, and he grew into a man with hard edges. Killer. Mercenary. Gangster. Yet he'd throw it all away for the soft swish of silk, for the chance to hold a blackbird in his hand, but this bird refuses to be caged. When she flies away, will she take his heart with her?
1. Chapter 1: Blood and Silk

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

 **Summary:** Scorned. Outcast. Hunted. Gu Dong-mae was forced to flee his home while he was just a boy. Life dealt him only hard blows, and he grew into a man with hard edges. Killer. Mercenary. Gangster. Yet he'd throw it all away for the soft swish of silk, for the chance to hold a blackbird in his hand. But this bird refuses to be caged. When she flies away, will she take his heart with her?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 1: Blood and Silk**

 _Hanseong, Joseon. December 1884._

Death has always defined me. I was trained to kill as a child, and I was good at it. Very good. I learned to strike hard, strike fast, and strike without hesitation. Animals can sense if you're afraid or uncertain, and they'll struggle for their lives, lash out with hooves or horns, teeth or claws. I was always calm when I worked, moving with a brutal efficiency that helped earn money for my parents even as the other butchers cast me sidelong glances and whispered behind my back that perhaps I was _too_ skilled, especially for someone so young.

It was my mother who made sure I learned to use my mind as well as my hands. She knew enough _Hangul_ to keep track of accounts, especially who owed us money, and taught me as well. She was an unforgiving teacher, quick to punish any mistakes with a slap to my ears. If I dared complain, she would strike even harder. "You think I do this because I like it? Everyone in this life will try to take advantage of you. How else am I to protect you?"

I learned fast beneath her blows and grew fast thanks to the steady diet of meat, and as soon as I was taller than she was, I went along when she tried to collect on debts. Perhaps she thought my presence would help, but instead it simply exposed me to the daily humiliations that she endured. The market women just laughed when she asked them to pay what they owed, threw refuse at us, and worse. When they struck us and kicked us, mother just whispered, "Rough beatings hurt less."

We _baekjeong_ were the lowest of the low, beneath even slaves, our bodies and souls rendered impure by our constant contact with death. It wasn't until I started venturing out of _Banchon_ with my mother that I realized the full extent of the disgust, the revulsion, we invoked in others. Shame burned in my gut as we groveled in the dirt, bowing and scraping before everyone else we encountered, even children. It didn't matter if we were mocked, spit on, kicked - we were forbidden from raising a hand in our defense.

Everything changed the night a stranger came to our hut. Father kept me in the shed, allowing the man to be alone with mother even though I could hear her crying out. Father pretended he couldn't hear and just kept his eyes on his work, methodically cleaving through flesh and bone, not speaking. How was I supposed to respect a man who let his wife suffer such abuse? Why learn to wield a knife if you can't use it to protect your family?

"Why did you give birth to me if this was how I would be treated?" I screamed at him until I was hoarse, but as always, he had no answer. My shame transformed into anger, sending fire through my veins, burning me until my hands shook with it. Perhaps that's why I didn't fight, didn't even question when mother cast me out the next morning.

"Get out! Go!" she shouted at me, brandishing a knife coated thickly with blood. "Die on the streets, become a gypsy, or join the bandits, I don't care. Make sure you never show yourself to me. I can't stand the sight of another butcher! Go before I kill you!"

Shock made me slow, and when I didn't move fast enough, she sliced wildly through the air, the blade catching me on my forehead just over my left eye. I fell to the ground, fear and anger rekindling in my belly, and I struck back at her with my words. "Fine! I'm going. I will! I won't ever come back! I don't want butcher parents anyway!"

I ran blindly, my eyes filled with tears, stumbling down the dirt path away from our thatched huts and out of Banchon, toward the market. I eventually collapsed behind a potter's stall, gasping for breath, trying to think. I had no money, no food, nothing but ragged cotton clothing to protect me from the rapidly approaching winter night. I had nowhere to go, no one to help me. It was the cold that made my hands shake, the cold that made my chest hurt, the cold that made me wrap my arms tightly around myself and rock slowly where I sat. I don't know how much time passed while I shivered, dazed, before I was finally roused by the cries of the market women across the street.

I rose to my feet and crept out from my hiding spot, staying behind a low wall to avoid being seen. A group of commoners had clustered in a loose circle and the men were using pieces of heavy timber to strike something at their feet. I dared to look over the wall and gasped at the sight - my parents were huddled on the ground on their knees, arms raised protectively over their heads as the blows fell heavily against their backs.

"That won't be enough to kill them!" screamed a woman as she picked up a heavy rock and smashed it against my mother's skull. A guttural cry escaped my throat as I watched her collapse on the ground. My fingers dug into the wall with the desire to climb over, run over, stand over my parents' bodies and somehow stop the mob from their deadly frenzy.

Suddenly a palanquin blocked my view, the bearers coming to a halt and setting it down in the middle of the road. While I could still hear the beating continue, breaking my view of my parents' bodies jolted me out of any thought of running to them. I collapsed back against the wall, knowing that the mob would surely kill me too if they saw me.

A stout servant woman scurried to the side of the palanquin and slid open the window to reveal a young girl. " _Agassi_ , something strange must have happened since the street is crowded. Wait here while I go and find out."

The little girl nodded, leaning slightly out of her window to watch as her servant headed toward the crowd. I found myself staring at the child with a reluctant fascination. I had seen plenty of the nobility in my life - the scholars from Sungkyunkwan frequented the streets of Banchon to buy supplies for their studies - but never a _yangban_ girl. From the elaborate gold ornamentation of her palanquin to her smooth hair that gleamed dark as a black bird, everything about her spoke of a richness and luxury completely foreign to me. I knew from the shine of her bright green _jeogori_ that it was made of silk, a material too precious to ever touch my unworthy fingers. Her skin, too, was smooth, unblemished, so perfect it could have been porcelain. She seemed almost unreal, as if it was impossible for a person to be that beautiful.

The servant raced back, panting. "Agassi, in Banchon, a butcher girl stabbed a commoner to death."

I reeled back in shock. My mother's actions suddenly took on new meaning - the stranger last night, the bloody knife this morning. She hadn't abandoned me, she tried to protect me by driving me away. If I let myself get caught now, her sacrifice would be for nothing.

"The son ran away," the woman added breathlessly.

The girl shook her head. "He couldn't leave," she said softly, and I realized she was looking directly at me. She tried to wave me over, but when her servant spotted me and frowned I ducked back behind the wall.

"Come out," the girl ordered in that same gentle voice. "You can ride with me."

"Agassi, that's impossible! You can't allow a strange boy inside with you! And if he's baekjeong, well you can't - it's just - it's not allowed!"

"Ms. Haman," the girl began, and her voice suddenly had such an unyielding tone that I stood, startled, and looked back over the wall at them. "I have already made the offer. I will not go back on my word. Open the screen. Now."

The servant blustered but reluctantly moved toward the front of the palanquin and pulled open the screen. She cast me an angry look. "Well? Are you going to keep my lady waiting?"

Before either of them could change their minds, I scrambled over the wall and ducked quickly under the screen, folding my legs to sit on one side of the cabin. The screen snapped shut behind me and everything swayed as the bearers stood and resumed walking. I braced my palms briefly against the walls of the palanquin but swiftly pulled them back, ashamed to see the filth on my hands against the sumptuous curtains.

I looked up to find her gaze focused on me, wide-eyed but steady. I felt painfully self-conscious. Was she looking at my coarse, dirty clothes? My rough-cut, unwashed hair? I didn't see any fear or disgust on her face, though. Instead, she seemed genuinely concerned. Her eyes flicked up to my forehead and I remembered the cut over my eyebrow.

"I'm okay," I assured her. "But why help me?"

"So you won't get caught," she replied simply.

"What for?"

Her gaze was sincere when she answered. "I was told every man's life is precious."

It was that word, precious, that struck me the hardest. Nothing about me or my life was precious. If every man's life was precious, would my parents have been beaten to death in the streets? Tears blurred my vision as the last sight of their bloodied bodies flashed through my mind. I swallowed hard, tried to turn away from the memory, and stoked a growing sense of injustice instead. "Who said that?"

"Confucius."

The answer only fueled my anger. The yangban worshipped Confucius like he was a god. Of course they did - his teachings kept them in power, and kept the baekjeong under their feet. Not that this girl, this child, would understand that. She was sheltered from the real world in her palanquin, which baekjeong like me were forbidden to ever ride inside. She was clothed in silk worth more than my family earned in ten years, which baekjeong like me were forbidden to wear.

I wanted to lash out, wanted to strike hard, but without a blade I had only my hands, my blood, my words. I grasped the edge of her pink _chima_ in my left hand and pulled it slowly to me, to my torn lip, to wipe my mouth, to defile the delicate fabric with my impure blood.

I met her shocked stare with a hard gaze. "You're just a noble fool who lives in luxury."

Her tiny hands clenched her chima defensively, pulling it tight, but I didn't loosen my grip. I watched tears form in her eyes and felt them rise in my own as well, but that made no sense. I had wanted to strike out, I had wanted to hurt her. I should be glad to see her tears. I wanted to put my mark on her - not just her chima, but her soul. For my words to strike deep, leave a lasting scar. Then I would stay with her, a painful memory that would ache forever.

I used my right fist to pound on the side of the cabin. "Stop now!" I called. "I'm leaving." The palanquin jerked to a halt and slammed abruptly to the ground. I twisted around to push up the screen and climb out without another word, without another glance at the hurt on her face.

I ran into the cold, fading light alone. I had no idea where I would go, how I would live now. I couldn't worry about a spoiled girl with a gentle voice and sad eyes. The softness of silk had no place in my life. I was born into a blood-soaked world, and to blood I would return again and again.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Agassi \- "My lady"

Baekjeong \- "Untouchable" lowest social caste in Korean history. Nomadic and/or segregated, denied citizenship, and restricted to jobs which Buddhism considered unclean, such as butcher, grave-digger, executioner, leather worker, etc. Intermarriage forbidden with other castes.

Banchon \- neighborhood in old Hanseong/Seoul where butchers and other lower classes lived

Chima \- long skirt that forms part of a hanbok, a woman's traditional dress.

Hangul \- the Korean alphabet

Hanseong \- historical name for the city of Seoul

Jeogori \- Korean woman's jacket that tied across the chest with a ribbon. Upper part of hanbok.

Joseon \- historical name for the kingdom of Korea (1392-1897)

Yangban \- the nobility, i.e. the highest social caste in Korean history, comprised of scholars and officials

 **REFERENCES:**

 **Lynn, Hyung Gu. "Fashioning Modernity: Changing Meanings of Clothing in Colonial Korea."** ** _Journal of International and Area Studies_** **, vol. 11, no. 3, 2004, pp. 75–93.**

 **Passin, Herbert. "The Paekchong of Korea. A Brief Social History."** ** _Monumenta Nipponica_** **, vol. 12, no. 3/4, 1956, pp. 195–240.**


	2. Chapter 2: Paper and Ink

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

 **Summary:** Scorned. Outcast. Hunted. Gu Dong-mae was forced to flee his home while he was just a boy. Life dealt him only hard blows, and he grew into a man with hard edges. Killer. Mercenary. Gangster. Yet he'd throw it all away for the soft swish of silk, for the chance to hold a blackbird in his hand. But this bird refuses to be caged. When she flies away, will she take his heart with her?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 2: Paper and Ink**

 _Hanseong, Joseon. December 1884._

The boy had been gone for quite a while, the light was fading and the palanquin was surely almost home, yet my heart still pounded, my fist still clenched the pink silk of my chima. I could see the blood stain near the hem but could not bring myself to touch it. The rasp of his voice still echoed in my ears, his disdain as sharp now in my memory, perhaps even sharper. Even his smell lingered, the rich scent of dirt, coppery blood, sour notes of fear. I wanted to burn my chima, scrub my skin clean, erase any evidence of our encounter. But I feared he had left his mark on me, too deep to remove.

When the palanquin finally halted I grabbed my _bojagi_ and bolted out of the cabin, Ms. Haman following close behind as I ran through the main gate of the house, crossed the courtyard and went straight to my room in the woman's wing. I began pulling off my jeogori without even sliding the door closed behind me, holding back tears as I tugged impatiently at the ribbon tying it closed.

"Lady Ae-shin, what's gotten into you?" Ms. Haman said, quickly closing the door and coming to help pull my jeogori off and hang it up. "Did that beast touch you? _Aish!_ I knew I shouldn't have let you help him. If your grandfather hears about this -"

I spun around. "You cannot tell him! He'll lock me in my room until spring if he finds out!"

Ms. Haman waved her hands. "I won't tell him, Agassi, don't worry about that. But you can't keep doing these things. First you insist on buying this book," she pointed to the bojagi, "and you know he won't like that either. All these secrets are going to get you into trouble one day."

I unwrapped the book, clutching it tightly to my chest. I had been wanting to read a copy of _Hong Gildong_ ever since I'd overheard servants in the courtyard whispering the tale to each other this summer while hanging laundry out to dry. The idea of a lowborn man who became a king was so different from the Confucian texts I had read all my life, it was irresistible. But grandfather frowned on anything frivolous, so I had to figure out a way to get a copy without his knowledge. I had spent months convincing him I was old enough to go to the market and promised to behave with all proper decorum before he finally relented. Just as I hoped, today's market had a bookseller with a copy, although I had to trade my favorite _norigae_ , the one with a silver dragon and blue silk tassels, to buy it.

"I'll just have to find a safe place to hide it." I opened a chest and stuffed the forbidden book under a heavy winter quilt.

Grumbling under her breath, Ms. Haman helped remove my sash and chima, inspecting the smear of blood on the hem. "I don't know if I'll be able to get this stain out -"

"Burn it." I would forget all about my encounter with the baekjeong boy. I had extended a hand to help him, but like a beast, he had no gratitude, and had tried to bite me instead. There was no reason for me to think of him. After all, I would never see him again.

Later that night, after eating dinner, washing and changing into my nightclothes, I pulled my hard-earned copy of _Hong Gildong_ from its hiding spot in the chest. I settled on the cushion next to my desk, adjusted my lamp for more light, eagerly opened the cover and started to read. Immediately I was enthralled by the dramatic story, from the noble father's prophetic dream of being devoured by a fierce blue dragon, to the scandal of him lying with a maidservant, and my great pity for the hero's plight - for having been born to a servant meant he could never enjoy the privileges of the yangban himself. Certain passages caught my attention, and I found myself returning to them again and again:

" _Of all things created by heaven, a human being is the most precious...yet all my life I have had to bear this sorrow inside me which prevents me from looking up at Heaven with pride. How can a true man resign himself to being considered an inferior by others all his life? All I want is the opportunity to advance myself in the proper way...but since I am prohibited from pursuing such an ambition, I fear that I may end up leaving home and perhaps committing some unrighteous act for which I will remain notorious even after my death_."

When I finally blew out the lamp and tried to sleep, I found myself tossing and turning uneasily, unsettled by the ideas in the novel. I had been raised to believe that the teachings of Confucius had brought harmony and order to the world. As long as every person performed the duties assigned to them in their place in the social hierarchy, as long as they behaved with virtue and respect, happiness was assured. It had not occurred to me that someone might want to rise to a higher position than was allowed, or that their wasted talent would breed resentment.

As hard as I tried to forget them, the boy's words returned to haunt me throughout the night. Was I truly just a noble fool, with no understanding of the real world? Where was he now? Orphaned, alone, out in the cold night, what would become of him? It was much, much later before I finally fell into a troubled sleep, and even then I was pursued in my dreams by a fierce dragon like the one in the novel. Only this one was deep black in color, with a wide red mouth, and when he chased me down, he devoured me whole.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Aish: Korean exclamation of frustration

Bojagi: Korean square wrapping cloth used for storing and carrying items, similar to a knapsack

Hong Gildong: Famous Korean folktale that became the subject of several novels beginning in the 17th century

Norigae: A traditional Korean accessory hung from a woman's jeogori or sash featuring an ornament and tassel

 ** **REFERENCES:  
**** **Hogarth, Brian.** ** _Temple, Palace, Scholar's House: Three Settings of Traditional Korean Culture: A Teacher Workshop_** **. Asian Art Museum, February 26, 2000.**

 **Kang, Minsoo, translator.** ** _The Story of Hong Gildong_** **. Penguin Classics, 2016.**

 **Kyŏng-ja Yi and Lee Jean Young.** ** _Norigae: Splendor of the Korean Costume_** **. Seoul: Ewha Womans UP, 2005.**


	3. Chapter 3: Fire and Water

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 3: Fire and Water**

 _Hanseong and Jemulpo, Joseon. December 1884._

I kept off the main roads as much as possible, moving quickly through the narrow, winding back alleys. I wasn't familiar with the neighborhood but it still seemed eerily quiet, shops closed and few people on the street. Strange sounds echoed every now and then but I couldn't tell where they came from. I had no plan, nowhere to go, I simply ran in the opposite direction from my home, my parents' bodies. If I stopped moving I feared I would freeze in the bitter cold. No one would miss a runaway butcher's son, but if I died, who would perform _chesa_ to care for the spirits of my parents and ancestors? The thought of their anguished ghosts, lost and starving without my care, forced me to put one foot in front of the other even when I was so numb I could no longer feel the ground beneath me.

I saw the smoke first, a dark stain to the west against the setting sun. As I approached cautiously, I heard a growing swell of voices. Not just a few voices, but a crowd, and an angry one. I froze, afraid that somehow the mob that killed my parents had come after me too. I soon realized that was almost impossible - I was hardly important enough to cause a city-wide search, and how would they have known where I was headed when I didn't know myself?

I gathered my courage to move closer and investigate, climbing stone stairs to the top of a hill that looked down on the chaos below. To my left I saw was the tiled roof of the wide stone gate, guards rushing along the ramparts, the heavy wooden doors bolted closed. I cursed under my breath. The city was ringed by eight gates, but they weren't supposed to be shut until after the _Jong Kak_ rang 28 times to signal the end of the day. It would have been hard enough for me to sneak past the guards since I didn't have a _hopae_ and might not pass their inspection - but if the gates were bolted shut early, I had no chance at all.

I was considering turning back when a gunshot rang out, making me flinch involuntarily. I carefully climbed higher until I could better see the crowd around the gate. Some Joseon soldiers were taking aim with rifles, while a crowd of commoners had taken up stones. Approaching them from my right, marching straight down the center of the wide street, was a troop of Japanese soldiers, at least fifty of them. Behind them were clusters of Japanese merchants and civilians, including women and children, as well as some men wearing Western-style clothing, carts full of injured people and supplies, and a few Joseon men with their servants carrying heavy loads of baggage on their backs, followed by another large rear guard of soldiers. They were coming from the direction of the smoke - so much smoke that it could only have been created by something large like an entire building on fire. There must have been some kind of incident or battle, because it looked like the entire Japanese population of Hanseong was being evacuated - and quickly.

The Joseon soldiers took aim and fired, but they must not have been well-trained because none of them seemed to hit his target. The Japanese returned fire with deadly effect and advanced steadily, pushing the smaller force into retreat. Japanese soldiers seized axes from the gatehouse and began hacking furiously at the bolted gates. Bystanders cursed and threw stones but were largely ignored.

I immediately knew this situation could work to my advantage, but what would be the best course of action? Guards from other parts of the city would probably be drawn here, which meant I might have a chance to sneak through a different gate. But that would be a gamble, especially since I wasn't familiar with the city, and when I reached the other gates they could be closed as well. Or I could join the chaos below and try to slip through while everyone was distracted - assuming I didn't get shot by either side.

My gut told me that the right course was always to seize the opportunity in front of me. I moved quickly down the stairs and headed for the back of the crowd, out of sight of the gate guards who were still exchanging fire with the Japanese soldiers, hoping I could blend into the masses unnoticed.

I was immediately drawn to the small group of Joseon people huddled near the back. I worked my way through the agitated crowd, approaching several yangban dressed in elaborate robes who were walking beside a mule-drawn cart piled high with crates, accompanied by three Joseon servants with A-frame carriers strapped to their backs. Another shot rang out and I ducked, shocked when one of the servants fell to the ground in front of me, clutching his neck. Blood sprayed through his fingers, drops of it warm against my face, and I had sliced enough throats to know that he wasn't going to survive.

One of the yangban hovered above us, crouching low, wringing his hands. "Get up, hurry! We can't stop now."

" _Nari_ , he's been shot," I said, kneeling over the man, but there was no way to help - he would be dead in minutes from the blood loss. The mob continued to swell threateningly around us while the servants struggled to drag the injured man to the cart as it continued to move forward. "You're wasting your time," I told them, "he can't be saved."

The panicked yangban climbed up onto the cart, but not to help - instead he opened one of the crates and began pulling out heavy pieces of celadon pottery, letting them shatter on the street. " _Aish_ , leave him. They're targeting the Koreans. I won't be shot like this!" He climbed into the crate and pulled the lid over his head.

The remaining servants exchanged frightened glances. "I'm not getting shot either!" one cried, unstrapping the A-frame full of baggage and leaving it on the ground, running back into the city. I didn't need any time to consider - in a matter of moments I pulled the straw straps of his abandoned carrier over my shoulders and stood, balancing under the weight of the load. I wasn't afraid of getting shot, my only goal was to disappear into the chaos and get out of the city. The Japanese were breaking through the gate, and if I could blend in with their party, I could get out too.

Ignoring the shouting that came from all around, and the stones still thrown periodically by the crowd, I pushed forward into the crush of bodies trying to pass through the gate. I held my breath, craning my neck to spot any remaining gate guards, but saw nothing. The Japanese forces had better aim and several slain Joseon soldiers lay scattered around, the rest may have taken cover. After a few tense minutes I emerged on the other side of the gate, outside the city center. The refugees continued to stick close together as they surged down the road, but the mob followed as well, continuing to shout and harass, so I decided to try to stay with the Japanese until I could find a good time to peel away.

Suddenly a blast split the air, loud as thunder, and I heard shouts of "Cannon!" from one of the yangban. Panic heightened through the crowd and, free of the gate, everyone started moving faster, practically running. I wasn't used to the weight of the A-frame and stumbled on the uneven road, but the other remaining servant grabbed my arm to steady me. "Just a little further," he panted. "We have to get to the ferry at Mapo."

Just as my legs started to cramp, the crowd ahead began to slow and spread out. Beyond them was a wide, slow-moving body of water extending as far as I could see in both directions. This had to be the _Hangang_ ; I had heard of the mighty river that cut through Hanseong and knew it was south of the city center, but I had never seen it myself. Several small boats were being overrun by the frantic Japanese civilians as the soldiers quickly formed a solid, protective line, their rifles pointing behind us toward the Joseon people who had followed all the way from the city. I worked my way to the bank of the river, flinching every time the Japanese soldiers opened fire at the mob behind us, impatiently waiting until I was able to scramble onto a spot on one of the ferries.

The boat ride was the most nerve-wracking part of the entire journey. Everyone swayed unsteadily as the current rocked us against each other in the overcrowded ferry, my balance even worse under the weight of the baggage I carried. The river stretched nearly two _li_ across and the trip seemed to take forever, repeatedly reminding me that I couldn't swim and would surely drown if I fell into the water. I felt completely vulnerable, not only to possible fire from the Joseon soldiers, but I was also terrified of my presence being questioned by any of the Japanese. I kept my head down and my eyes low, my grip on the edge of the boat white-knuckled with tension until we finally landed on the other bank.

My knees shook when I finally staggered off the ferry, and it took all my concentration to keep my feet as I fought my way up the bank, slogging through the ice-slicked mud to join the crowd regathering on the road. The sun was setting fast, a cold wind blowing off the river and my wet cotton pants chilling me to the bone. The remaining soldiers were the last to cross over, and thankfully the crowd that had followed us out of the city seemed to lose interest in continuing their pursuit, instead picking up their wounded and carrying them back toward the broken gate.

An older soldier in an elaborate military uniform moved into the center of the crowd and a hush fell as everyone waited for him to speak. I spotted the man who helped me earlier and slowly wound my way through the people to stand next to him. As the leader started speaking in Japanese, I leaned close to the Joseon servant and whispered, "Do you know what he's saying?"

He nodded. "That's Takezoe Shinichiro, the Japanese minister. We have to march straight on to the port at Jemulpo, to get on a ship to Japan."

I pulled back in surprise. "You're not going, are you?"

"I don't have much choice now," he said gruffly.

"But you're from Joseon. Why go to Japan?"

The servant pointed to the cluster of yangban. The one who had hidden in the crate earlier was only now crawling out to join his fellows on the ground next to the cart. "That's Kim Ok-kyun, leader of the progressives. They tried to reform the government, punish corrupt officials, and give equal rights to everyone."

I almost laughed. "Equal rights? What about the slaves? And the...the baekjeong? Even if the king agreed, the politicians would never let that happen."

"I know. That's why he murdered the ministers, kidnapped the king, and forced him to sign the reforms. The Japanese tried to help," he nodded at the minister, who was still speaking, "but the Queen snuck a communication to the Chinese forces and they overwhelmed us."

My eyes widened as I looked at the refugees shivering in the dark with a new perspective. No wonder the Joseon mob was enraged, attacking civilians and burning their buildings. To actually kidnap the king and murder his officials - I didn't know whether they were brave or crazy. But I knew why they were running for their lives. "They'll be executed for treason if they're caught."

He nodded. "All the Joseon members will be. Our parents, our children, our brothers and sisters. Three generations of our families will be killed. Our entire family lines will end."

"What about your family?"

He winked. "I prepared, just in case something went wrong. I'm not from Hanseong, and no one knows my real name. I go by _Nokdu_."

"Mung bean?"

He laughed softly. "Because I'm so short."

He _was_ short, almost a head shorter than me, but stocky and strong, and old enough to be my father. His hair was swept back into an uneven topknot, his receding hairline revealing a wide, round forehead that made him look wise, like a teacher. "Why did you join up with these yangban?"

"I wanted to do something to change our country. Joseon is rotting from the inside out." He reached out and grasped my shoulder. "So, are you sure you want to come with us? Even knowing the danger to your family?"

"My family is already dead," I replied grimly, "and Joseon has already turned her back on me. I don't owe her anything." Nokdu squeezed my shoulder and I felt my throat close with emotion.

Before he could say anything else, the minister must have finished giving his orders because the soldiers shifted into two columns with the civilians and baggage, including Nokdu and me, in the middle. Everyone wearily began moving forward and I joined them. My feet fell into a rhythm, my straw shoes offering little protection against the increasingly rocky path as we left the city behind. Hills and valleys passed in a blur, fallow fields dusted with hard frost in the starlight. I was surrounded by the clopping of the soldiers' horses, the creak of the carts, the occasional wailing from the Japanese civilians, and the whispered gossiping from the small number of Joseon servants. Their numbers dwindled slowly throughout the night as they, one by one, dropped back, away from the soldiers, and quietly melted into the countryside. Nokdu remained nearby, however, his steady presence helping me keep going even when I wanted to stop, to sleep, to find somewhere to curl up and try to get warm, even though I knew there was no warmth to be found.

The first fingers of dawn were just reaching through the sky when we finally arrived at Jemulpo. It was much smaller than Hanseong, barely a village, just a flat expanse of squat thatch-roof houses. The road let us straight down to the mud flats that lined the coast, and despite my exhaustion I felt a surge of excitement at my first sight of the Japanese ship in the water. Her black hull seemed huge, and she was even taller than the great stone walls that circled Hanseong, with a massive black chimney that rose even higher. I had heard of these fire-eating ships that could reach Japan in a day, but I never thought I would sail on one myself.

The Japanese civilians quickly began ferrying over to the ship while Nokdu and I gathered near the yangban, who were the only other Joseon people left. We stood in the stinking, freezing muck for hour after hour, waiting for our turn, but even after most of the refugees were aboard we were still waiting. An argument broke out in Japanese between the minister and the yangban leader Kim. Nodku leaned over and translated for me, "He doesn't want to let Kim on the ship, says his incompetence caused this entire mess."

I was nervous at the thought that, after this entire journey, we would be turned away at the end. If someone had told me a day ago that I would find myself eager to travel to Japan, I would have said they were crazy. But the idea had grown on me over the long night, and not just because I had nowhere else to turn. I had a chance to reinvent myself, to leave my cursed identity as a baekjeong behind. I was relieved when one of the Japanese men in Western-style dress joined the discussion, calming the minister until he grudgingly relented and finally we were allowed to ferry over. I wasn't as nervous this time on the water, possibly because the journey was much shorter, but also because I was feeling a tentative hope that my life was about to change for the better.

As preparations finished for the ship to sail, Nokdu told me the Captain had ordered the Joseon people to go down to the hold, out of sight of any officials who might come in pursuit demanding justice for the attempted coup. First, however, since we were traveling to Japan, he insisted we find Japanese names to use. For our own safety the Captain wanted us to leave our Joseon identities behind - an idea I welcomed.

The Captain walked over to Kim, who looked miserable at the idea. "Iwata Shusaku," the Captain said firmly, moving down the line of yangban and choosing new names for each of them.

Nokdu snickered. "Iwata means stone field - stubborn and proud. Fitting." When it was Nodku's turn, he had no difficulty choosing a new name for himself. "Ryokutō is the Japanese word for mung bean," he said, laughing easily. "What about you? What do you want to be called?"

My attention was caught by a magpie that settled itself on a length of rope nearby. Its feathers were a glossy black color that gleamed in the morning sun. A busy sailor moved past, startling the bird, and I watched as it took flight. Its wings caught the breeze and it began to glide effortlessly on the wind. There was something about the bird that fascinated me, maybe the rich color of its plumage, or the ease with which it floated above the rest of us.

"Sho," Nokdu said, following my gaze. "It means 'to soar.' What do you think?"

I nodded. "Then you'll be Sho Ishida," the Captain declared. Our new identities decided, we trooped down to the cramped, gloomy hold. I unstrapped the A-frame with a sigh of relief and found a dark corner to curl up and try to get warm. I would sleep for nearly the entire day's voyage, and my dreams would come and go, but always with me was the image of the black bird. It hovered near me, encouraging me to strive, filling me with hope, even as it stayed always, always, just out of reach. 

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Aish \- Korean exclamation of frustration

Chesa \- Korean rituals for the dead  
Hangang \- Han River

Hopae \- Identification tag carried by Korean men in the Joseon era  
Jong Kak - Bell Pavilion renamed Bosingak in 1895; older spelling Chong Kak  
Li \- Joseon measure of distance. One li = 2160 feet. The current Mapo bridge spans 4,560 feet.

Nari \- "My lord" in Korean  
Nokdu \- "Mung bean" in Korean. This is the nickname for Jeon Bongjun (Chon Pong-jun), leader of the Donghak (Tonghak) Peasant Revolution.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:**  
Conroy, Hilary. _The Japanese Seizure of Korea, 1868-1910: A Study of Realism and Idealism In International Relations_. U of Pennsylvania P, 1960.

Foulk, George C. _America's Man in Korea: The Private Letters, 1884-1887_. Lexington Books, 2008.

Keene, Donald. _Emperor of Japan: Meiji and His World, 1852-1912_. Columbia UP, 2005.

Lew, Young Ick. "The Conservative Character of the 1894 Tonghak Peasant Uprising: A Reappraisal with Emphasis on Chon Pong-jun's Background and Motivation." _The Journal of Korean Studies_ , vol. 7, 1990, pp.149-180. JSTOR.

Lowell, Percival. "A Korean Coup D'Etat." _Atlantic Monthly_. 1886: Nov., pp. 599-618. Internet Archive. [This is the most detailed account I have found of the Gapsin Coup of 1884 and the escape of the conspirators and the Japanese from Seoul]

Park, Eunbong. _Letters from Korean History, Volume 4: From Late Joseon to the Daehan Empire_. Cum Libro, 2016.

Rösch-Rhomberg, Inge. "Hierarchical Opposition and the Concept of ŭm-yang (yin-yang). A Reevaluation of Values in the Light of the Symbolism of Korean Rituals for the Dead." _Anthropos_ , vol. 89, no. 4/6, 1994, pp. 471-491. JSTOR.


	4. Chapter 4: Questions and Fears

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 4: Questions and Fears**

 _Hanseong, Joseon. December 1884._

I stayed up too late reading the story of _Hong Gildong_ , and the black dragon that haunted my dreams kept me tossing and turning deep into the night. Just as I finally started drifting into a sound sleep, a commotion in our courtyard jolted me awake again. Voices raised in alarm stoked my curiosity and pulled me out of bed. I carefully slid my door open and tiptoed closer to the source of the noise, which was coming from several men in official dress pacing inside our _taechong_. The nearly full moon was bright and several lanterns swung on the porch, so I crouched low against the wall and took careful peeks around the corner, knowing that if any of them saw me, I would be in huge trouble. I nervously considered returning to my room, but then my grandfather started speaking in his gentle voice and I strained to hear him.

"As long as King Gojong and the _Daewongun_ are safe, that's all that matters," he said.

A chorus of voices cried out in protest: "Seven ministers were murdered!" - "Japanese invaded the palace!" - "The streets are clogged with bodies!"

Grandfather cleared his throat and the group quieted to hear his opinion. "This disharmony afflicting our nation has been caused by the deterioration of the Five Bonds," he declared. "King Gojong is not maintaining the differentiation between husband and wife. By failing to enforce his natural male authority, he has allowed Queen Min and her family to dominate him and disrupt all the other moral relationships. By allowing the Daewongun to be held by China, King Gojong is not displaying filial piety toward his father. The Queen's relatives have taken over all the prime positions, their greed distorting the relationship between ruler and minister. Now even the Mandate of Heaven is in jeopardy, for if the King cannot care for his people, they will naturally rise up against him. However the root of all these ills is the disruption of the family, caused by a wife who thinks she has the equal right to rule, and a husband too weak to correct her behavior. If we can secure the return of the Daewongun from China and restore him to power, he will set things right again."

Several others nodded in agreement, but one official continued to protest, "The rebels demanded the return of the Daewongun. But there is no excuse for conspiring with the Japanese!"

Grandfather nodded. "That is true. We cannot allow any barbarians to interfere with our affairs. Joseon is the greatest nation in history. Our people follow the teachings of Confucius and the other Sages with a purity and devotion unmatched by any other country. We should hold ourselves as a model for the world. While some reforms need to be made, we will make them on our own. We must reject the Westernized bandits who seek to steal our nation from us, even if their goals seem to temporarily align with ours. We must find another way to restore the Daewongun."

The men murmured their assent, and the group fell into a quiet, but intense, conversation. I crept back to my room, climbed under my quilt, and stared up at the ceiling. Grandfather's words were still ringing in my ears - not the part about the murders or the reforms, but it was his admonition of Queen Min, the insubordination of her thinking she was equal to a man, that kept me awake long into the night.

The next morning I struggled to wake up and dreaded having to sit through Aunt Jo's lessons. As I set up my reading table and waited for her to arrive, I snuck out my copy of _Hong Gildong_ and flipped to the part about his education. He " _needed to hear only one thing to understand ten, and learning ten things allowed him to master a hundred. He never forgot a single thing he heard or saw just once_." Perhaps I wasn't quite that brilliant, but I had started memorizing Confucius's teachings when I was seven years old, and could already recite most of them by heart. I found myself able to sympathize with the character in unexpected ways. He would never be permitted to use his intelligence to take the civil service exam and serve his country, because he was born of a concubine. I would never be able to use my intelligence for anything other than planning embroidery, because I was born a female. Was either situation fair or just?

I must have been short-tempered due to my lack of sleep, because as soon as Aunt Jo entered my room, I started complaining, "Why must I continue to copy _The Analects_? I have already memorized them." Aunt Jo paused in surprise, but rather than guard my tongue, I snapped again, "Why should I even study Confucius if I will never be able to do anything with my learning?"

She raised an eyebrow in silent reproach at my audacity. "You study to learn virtue and righteousness, so that you may give your husband wise counsel, and teach your children well. If you've already memorized _The Analects_ , then you should know to always address your elders with respect."

I felt a flash of shame at the reprimand. "I apologize," I murmured, looking down at my lap as I made sure to hide the novel under my chima.

She sighed and crossed the room. "It is strange you should say that, because this morning your grandfather instructed me to begin teaching you something new." I looked up hopefully as she sat across from me and set a book on the table. "This was written by scholar Song Si-yeol, as instructions for his daughter upon her marriage. I did not read this until I came to this house to marry your uncle - indeed, this is usually reserved for older girls." Aunt Jo pinned me with a firm gaze and her voice hardened. "However your grandfather insisted that you needed to learn the proper way of a wife early. He was very concerned about this issue today. Considering your disrespectful tone, it seems he was quite right."

I knew the source of his concern, but I was hardly going to confess that I had snuck out of the women's quarters last night to eavesdrop on his guests. I decided to make up for my poor behavior earlier by being a model student. "I will copy the whole thing, and remember it well."

Aunt Jo nodded. "See that you do. I will check on you in a few hours."

I busied myself setting out paper and preparing my inkstone and brushes. I began earnestly copying the book, but as I read farther, my brushstrokes slowed when the words penetrated my mind. " _A bride spends three years as if blind, three years as if deaf, and three years as if dumb. What this means is that you do not speak when you see things or hear things and speak only when it is absolutely necessary_." My hand began to tremble with outrage, but I steadied myself and kept writing, " _Serving your husband lies in not going against his wishes. Respect and support his wishes completely, not going against even one word….even if he acquires a hundred concubines, accept them_." I threw the brush down on the table in irritation, creating a spatter of ink across my pages. Who would ever want to get married if this was how they had to behave? A wife was little better than a slave!

Ms. Haman entered my room then, tut-tutting under her breath when she saw the mess I had made of my work. She wiped down the table and then added more water to the ink stone, grinding the ink stick in steady circles until the water was smooth and black. My thoughts swirled as I watched her labor, until finally I blurted out, "Are you happy?"

She pulled back in surprise and then laughed. "Agassi, what a question! Why wouldn't I be happy?"

"I mean, as a _solgo nobi_? Can you really be happy when you have to take orders all day?" I knew as soon as the words slipped out of my mouth that my question was unforgivably rude. Even before her mouth dropped open in shock, I understood it was a taboo subject, but I still wanted to hear her answer.

"What - why - well, of course! I get to live in a fine house, working for such a respected man as your grandfather. All the other nobi envy my position in this household!"

"But," I persisted, "you never married. Don't you want to have your own family? Your own children?"

Her expression turned sad, almost pitying. "You are my family, Agassi. I've raised you since you were a tiny baby. You are just as much my daughter as any child of my own would be."

My eyes teared up. "Does a child give her mother orders? Does a child own her mother? Don't you wish to be free?"

"Free to do what? Go where? I have everything I could want. Perhaps I am luckier than most, to work for a family that is righteous and just. None of the nobi try to run away from your grandfather, unlike other households where they are treated more harshly." She patted my hand. "I don't know what's going on in your head right now, but you've been confused ever since you saw that boy yesterday. Put him out of your mind. He's none of your concern."

Ms. Haman left to get my lunch, and I thought about her words. She seemed to be sincerely happy, but how much of her happiness was the result of luck? If she belonged to a different family, one that was cruel or corrupt, she would have little recourse for justice. Marriage, it seemed, would require luck as well. A kind husband might be bearable, but a spiteful or tyrannical man would be a nightmare to have to obey.

I was too agitated to try to pick up my brush again, so I pulled out my copy of _Hong Gildong_ and continued reading. I quickly became absorbed in the story and my breath quickened as the young man left his home, crying, " _because of my lowborn status, I have had to regard my father and older brother as my owners rather than relatives_." It was not just women or slaves who could be treated unfairly, but all manner of commoners too. A vision of the novel's hero began to form in my mind, his eyes fierce, hair windswept, as he fought the constraints that society placed on him. Only my image was not that of a yangban's son, but rather the baekjeong boy, with his dirty clothes and dirtier face, blood smeared across his forehead and tears on his cheeks. What kind of future would he have in Joseon? But what other choice did he have?

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Daewongun \- Honorary title for King Gojong's father, who ruled as regent until Gojong was old enough to take the throne, but conflicted with Queen Min and her Chinese supporters.  
Solgo Nobi \- "Nobi" combines "no", meaning man, with "bi", meaning woman, and together means slave. "Solgo" denotes a privately-owned "interior" slave who often lives in the master's residence.  
Taechong \- A porch-like open room at the front of a Korean yangban house, for receiving visitors.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:  
** De Bary, Wm Theodore, et al., editors. _Sources of Korean Tradition: Volume II: From the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Centuries_. Columbia UP, 2000.

Kang, Minsoo, translator. _The Story of Hong Gildong_. Penguin Classics, 2016.

Kim, Kichung. "Unheard Voices: The Life of the Nobi in O Hwi-mun's 'Swaemirok.'" _Korean Studies_ , vol. 27, 2003, pp. 108-37.


	5. Chapter 5: Soot and Rice

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 5: Soot and Rice**

 _Japan. December 1884._

I startled awake when the hatch crashed open. Between my exhaustion and the steady vibration of the ship, it felt like I had been sleeping deeply for several hours, but a rush of alarm woke me fully as a Japanese man in Western dress came down the ladder, and I pulled deeper into the shadows of the hold. A few lamps were lit near the center, and the yangban and Nokdu - or I guess I should call him by his new Japanese name, Ryokutō - were gathered around, talking softly. As the man stepped off the ladder and moved into the circle of lamplight I recognized him as the one who had argued with Takezoe and gotten us aboard.

The yangban leader Kim, now Iwata, bowed low. "Inoue-san, _arigatou gozaimashita_ ," he said as the man returned his bow. They spoke briefly in Japanese and then the man returned above-deck.

"He's right," said Iwata. "Fukuzawa will shelter us. We can raise funds and arms in Tokyo, gather more volunteers, and try again-"

"Are you crazy?" said one of the other yangban. "We've been driven out of our homeland in disgrace. Our families are probably being executed as we speak! We failed. You must accept that."

Iwata's face turned red. "We have nothing further to lose, and everything to gain! Are you a true patriot, or a coward? Run away, if you want! Go to Russia, or America, but don't pretend you care about Joseon if you are ready to give up so easily."

As the group continued to argue bitterly, Ryokutō noticed that I was awake and came over with a tin cup half-filled with water. I climbed stiffly to my feet and stretched out my arms, gratefully accepting the cup. "It will be another day at least until we dock at Nagasaki," he said. I drank quickly, and he pointed toward a corner. "There's a bucket over there for a toilet, and Inoue-san will send down a meal soon."

My stomach cramped at the thought of food. It had been two days since I had eaten anything, and I felt light-headed from hunger. But what troubled me more than my craving for food was the need for information. Last night there had been little time to talk, or understand what was happening, but now I burned with curiosity.

"Why was Iwata talking about Tokyo? Are you not staying in Nagasaki?"

Ryokutō shook his head. "We have no money, and little protection if the Japanese government decides to arrest us. We need to shelter with our supporters in Tokyo."

I frowned. Would it be better for me to cut loose from this group? Or stick with them? I didn't know anything about Japan - I didn't even speak the language. What chance would I have on my own? Ryokutō seemed to notice my hesitation and clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, no one's looking for a runaway boy who ought to still be in school."

"School?" I coughed to cover a laugh. "I'm no yangban. I can't spend my days in a classroom, reciting Confucius."

Ryokutō smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "I used to teach back in my village school. There's more to it than just Confucius. Is it that you don't want to sit in a class, or you're afraid you won't be able to learn?"

"School isn't the only place to learn. The streets teach their own lessons. Ones that are more useful than - calligraphy. Or poetry."

I was worried for a moment that I had offended him, but then he began laughing, a loud belly laugh. "I hope you stay with us, boy. I like you."

Ryokutō rejoined the others after that, and just as I was finishing my turn with the bucket, the hatch was pulled open again. I lingered back in the shadows while two sailors brought down a tray of food, then I crept out after they left, approaching the group in the lamplit center of the hold.

Although I was hoping to avoid their notice, Iwata spotted me and waved me over. "I don't recognize you," he said. "Are you one of the servants? Where did you come from?"

"He's with me," Ryokutō said, and once again I was in his debt.

I didn't like this yangban one bit, didn't like the way he ordered everyone around. Despite their talk about equality, most of these so-called rebels seemed to enjoy their power and authority. I would have to make myself useful to stay with this group, so even though it left a bitter taste in my mouth, I bowed low. "How can I serve you, Nari?"

Iwata waved at the tray impatiently. "Pass out the food, wash the dishes, fetch the water. That much should be obvious."

Swallowing my pride, I quickly plucked a wooden bowl from the top of the stack, grabbed the scoop and lifted the lid off the pot. Steam thick with the fragrant scent of rice rose up to surround me, making my mouth water, distracting me from Iwata's arrogance. As I spooned the rice into the bowls and handed them out, I marveled at its pure white color, its soft texture. I had never eaten white rice before. Our family was too poor to buy anything but yellow millet mixed with barley. Mother had always been a good cook, doing the best she could with what we were able to afford, but even my dreams had never dared to include white rice.

"No soup? No fish? Not even _banchan_?" Iwata complained. "How does this pass for a meal?"

I glanced over at Ryokutō in time to see him rolling his eyes, forcing me to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Instead I kept busy serving water from a pitcher while the others ate, scrubbed their bowls clean, and tried to stay quietly in the background. Soon the group finished eating, and with no _soju_ to linger over, they retreated to the back of the hold and stretched out to sleep with their _gat_ pulled low over their eyes.

Scraping the bottom of the pot with the wooden scoop, I was able to gather enough dried bits of rice to place one spoonful each into two wooden bowls. I laid them carefully on the table with two spoons and two glasses of water.

Careful not to disturb the others, I made my way over to some crates nearby that, I noticed earlier, had labels with the corners curling up in the humid sea air. Working slowly so that I didn't make any noise that could be heard over the ship's engines, I tore a blank strip of paper from one of the labels. Then I searched around until I found a broom and pulled out a bundle of straw, clutching it tightly in my hand. I moved quietly back to the lamps, one of which had been smoking badly for some time.

I dipped the ends of the straw into the black soot from the lamp, then spread my strip of paper flat on top of a crate. Slowly, carefully, I traced the names of my parents onto the curling scrap, along with the words 'Dearest mother' and 'Honored father'. I didn't realize tears were sliding down my face until they dropped onto the paper, smearing the ash I was using in place of ink. I wiped my sleeve across my face roughly, impatiently. I couldn't provide them with a proper burial, or a decent memorial shrine; no fruit for their offering table, or even any incense to call their spirits. How could I soothe their anguished souls like this?

I wasn't surprised when Ryokutō moved to stand by my side and placed a hand on my shoulder. He nodded at the paper. "When did it happen?"

"Yesterday." I cleared my throat. "Just before we left Hanseong."

He gasped in surprise. "Let me help you - when we get to port, we can find mourning clothes -"

"Don't bother," I whispered. "I can't wear mourning clothes. It's forbidden for my kind."

"What do you mean? Your kind? Everyone wears mourning clothes. Except -"

"I'm baekjeong." Ryokutō's hand tightened on my shoulder, but he didn't say anything. I couldn't bear to look at his face, so I kept my gaze locked on the paper in my hands. "My mother was a household slave for a yangban family. She's the one who taught me to write, because she learned in the house where she served as a cook. But they treated her cruelly and she ran away, hiding in a baekjeong village to avoid the slave catchers. That's where she met my father. She must have been desperate, to marry a butcher. She regretted it later. Even slaves are treated with more respect."

Ryokutō sighed then, patting my back. "That's why Joseon must reform. Equal rights for everyone, that's what we wanted."

"You can change the laws, but you can't change people's hearts," I said bitterly, turning to look at him. "Please don't tell the others. Let them think I'm a runaway slave. I'm going to use this chance to start over."

He nodded. "That decision belongs to you. If that's what you want, I'll respect it."

I propped my _chibang_ up against the edge of the lamp, arranged the water in front of the rice, and rose to my feet. Ryokutō stepped back, giving me room, and I knelt before the makeshift altar, pressing my forehead to the cool floor of the hold, then repeated the bow a second time. With no liquor to offer, I mumbled a prayer as best I could, then placed a spoon in each bowl of rice. Turning my back so that my parents' spirits could eat in peace, I saw that Ryokutō had returned to the others and settled down to sleep. I closed my eyes, trying to sense if my parents were truly present, or if their bad deaths were preventing them from finding me, or reaching any kind of peace. A cool breeze touched my neck, sending shivers down my spine, and when I opened my eyes and turned around, the lamps were flickering wildly. I swallowed, nervously removing the spoons from the bowls.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you more. But at least you got to taste white rice once, even if it was in the afterlife." I bowed twice more, then picked up the chibang, holding one corner of the paper to the flame of the lamp until it caught fire, curling and smoking as it burned to ash in my hand. The ceremony completed, I sat down beside the offerings. I knew I should eat slowly to make it last, but my hunger was so intense that I shoveled both spoonfuls of rice into my mouth at once, nearly whimpering at the exquisite flavor. It did little to satisfy my appetite, instead making me even more painfully aware of the emptiness of my stomach. However this would hardly be the first time I went to bed hungry. After washing up I settled back into the corner, my back pressed against the cold metal hull of the ship, and let its rolling motion lull me to sleep.

I didn't wake again until the ship shuddered to a stop, and I stayed out of sight while the sailors hauled out the cargo going to Nagasaki. Inoue brought Western dress for all the yangban to change into so they wouldn't be as easily recognized as Joseon people, although Ryokutō and I kept our coarse commoner clothes. I stayed close behind them as we transferred to a different ship and what little I saw of the port city of Nagasaki put Jemulpo to shame. The harbor was full of different kinds of ships, some with sails and others belching black smoke, smaller ships circling busily like flies. Barges of coal pulled next to the steam ships, full of workers scrambling up and down ladders to fill the holds with fuel, one basket at a time. Unlike the sandy grasses and mud flats of Jemulpo, Nagasaki was crowded with homes and businesses. Two-story Japanese houses with tile roofs sat beside an area of Western-style wooden buildings. I craned my neck to see if I could spot any real foreigners on the docks, doubting that the stories of their ghostly skin and hay-colored hair could really be true, but I didn't see any before we boarded the ship to Tokyo.

I had little choice but to serve the yangban for the moment, but I resolved to leave them as soon as I could make my way on my own. I wasn't cut out to be a servant, and although I was grateful that we received several more substantial meals on the voyage, much of the time while I was serving them I had to fight to resist the urge to throw their expensive food in their smug faces. I stuck close to Ryokutō and pestered him to teach me Japanese as quickly as possible. By the time we docked in Tokyo I had memorized hundreds of words, although I had to continue to work on my pronunciation. My goal was to sound just like a native Japanese; to exorcise completely any trace of Joseon from my tongue, my heart, my soul.

If I had thought Nagasaki was large, Tokyo was vast beyond my wildest imagination. Edo Bay was swarming with ships of all sizes, unloading everything from silk to fish to tangerines. There were more varieties of buildings and people on shore than my mind could absorb. Our group followed Inoue through the crowded streets, and at first I was nervous that we would be called out, immediately identified as not belonging. But half the men on the street were dressed in Western clothes like the kind the yangban were now wearing. Despite my white cotton garments, the baggage strapped to my back that marked me as a servant also seemed to make me nearly invisible - no one we passed had the least interest in me. Wide-eyed, my head swiveled back and forth, taking in everything from the broad, clean road, the two-storied buildings of rich, dark wood, and the mouth-watering foods sold in stalls lining the streets.

We soon left the merchant area behind and began walking uphill through quieter, tree-lined streets framed by high stone walls. Hanseong had similar walls lining the outer courtyards of yangban estates, but these were more than twice as high and clearly encircled much larger tracts of land. At the end of a long avenue we reached a tall, imposing gate made from heavy wood so dark it looked black. There were huge stones, higher than my knees, arranged in a line on either side of the gate, and a few horses were tied to the stones. There didn't seem to be any guards at the gate, and Inoue simply pushed open the doors and walked through. I followed the group but began to drop nervously behind as the size of the estate became clear. There were more steep hills on the inside, but they were lined with a thick covering of plants that, while currently brown in the cold, were part of an extensive garden that must be spectacular in the spring. We passed a pond in the middle of the property that was framed by willow trees, then reached the top of a hill where the buildings sprawled out in either direction, east and west wings seeming to stretch on endlessly.

"Is this the Emperor's palace?" I whispered when I caught up to Ryokutō. I could think of no other place in Hanseong except one of the King's palaces that would have been this large and grand, although I would expect a palace to be crawling with guards. Instead, coming from inside the buildings, I could have sworn I heard children, screeching with laughter.

"It used to be the estate of one of Japan's great nobles, the daimyō of the Shimabara clan," Ryokutō said. "When the Shōgun was overthrown by supporters of the Emperor, the nobles all returned home to their feudal lands and no longer needed property in Tokyo to house their families while paying tribute. Most of the estates in this area were abandoned and put up for sale by the government."

I couldn't quite wrap my head around being so wealthy that a huge manor like this was extra property, not even worth keeping. Nor could I imagine the sum of money required to buy something like this.

"Who is living here now? A noble? A merchant?"

"A teacher," he answered, the twinkle back in his eye. "This property has been converted to a school." I must have looked shocked, because he laughed heartily. "Perhaps you should reconsider your dislike of the classroom."

We had reached the main doors to the residence, which opened wide at our arrival. A tall man with graying hair and a traditional dark kimono strode down the steps to greet Iwata warmly. Ryokutō had taught me enough of Japanese greetings that I could follow that this was clearly Mr. Fukuzawa, the man who Iwata had been convinced would set everything right again. There was no ceremony or formal announcement of our presence, simply good friends happy to see each other. The others were familiar with the man and the house as well, for they all followed him inside without any hesitation.

However when it came time for me to walk behind Ryokutō into the manor, my feet froze in the doorway. Baekjeong weren't allowed to enter the houses of other people, even commoners, unless we were kneeling. I felt my knees buckle from habit but I forced myself to stay upright, to not give away my secret. I moved stiffly into the grand mansion, ignoring the pit of anxiety in my stomach that expected me to be called out as an imposter at any moment.

Servants came to collect our baggage and we filed into a formal sitting room filled with Western furniture. The yangban settled comfortably into the chairs to talk while I stood awkwardly back near the wall. Ryokutō joined in the conversation which, as far as I could tell with the limited Japanese I had picked up, was an overview of the events of the past few days. Because there was too much I couldn't understand, my attention started to wander, my gaze sliding over some of the strange Western items arranged around the room. Objects made of metal and glass, books in other languages, little statues of women dancing in clothes so tight it made me blush.

Soon several Japanese women entered the room with trays of tea and sweets. Some of them were plainly dressed and most likely servants, but two of the young women wore delicate silk kimono. Fukuzawa smiled at their entrance and introduced them as his daughters. His wife entered the room behind them, a small but serene woman followed by a nursemaid carrying a sturdy baby boy who was sitting up, but not yet crawling. Fukuzawa beamed and the others congratulated him heartily on what seemed to be his son, and there were repeated mentions of the number nine - could this be his ninth child? It seemed unbelievable but there were sounds of yet more young children tromping through the house, playing without much care for the guests. I could hear the sound of a ball in the nearby hallway as it bounced off walls and tables, followed by shuffling feet and giggling.

First the ball came into sight, rolling fast toward the corner of the room where I was standing. Then a young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, followed behind, barreling into the room after it. She saw me and her eyes widened, but when she tried to stop her white socks slid on the wooden floors and she crashed into a bookcase against the wall to my left, one filled with exotic Western objects. A tall vase on a top shelf toppled over on impact and, without thought, I stepped forward and covered her body with my own. The vase struck me on my right shoulder and shattered into pieces. The girl squealed, the men shouted, and I froze, afraid that I was going to be blamed for breaking a priceless foreign treasure.

"Taki-chan!" Fukuzawa crossed the room just as the girl started wailing. He took her by the shoulders and ran a hand over her head. " _Daijōbu_?" I expected him to strike her, as my mother surely would have done if I had interrupted an adult conversation, let alone broken something valuable, but instead he seemed merely worried about her.

I tried to step back, but the movement attracted Fukuzawa's notice. He passed the crying girl to her mother and grasped my right arm. As he raised it, I cried out in surprise - shards of broken glass had sliced through my shoulder in several places, and blood was quickly soaking my white cotton shirt. A flurry of activity erupted as I was practically dragged by Fukuzawa through the luxurious mansion, out the back kitchen to a separate bathhouse where I was handed over to a pair of matronly servants with orders barked out in Japanese. I squirmed in embarrassment while they removed my clothes, cleaned the cuts on my shoulder, washed my hair, and scrubbed my skin until it burned. I was deposited forcefully into a deep wooden tub of steaming water while one of the maids fetched needle and thread.

Soaking in a hot bath was the single most incredible feeling I had ever experienced in my life. I would willingly wash myself every day if I could do it like this. But all too soon the maid returned to stitch my wound, and every time I began to relax, the needle pierced my skin again, tugging tight, pulling my torn skin together. Blood trickled down my shoulder, swirling red before sinking into the deep water. Before the water had cooled, Ryokutō came into the bath chamber carrying an armload of clothing and dismissed the maids. After I dried off, he helped bandage my shoulder and then held up the top item from the pile, a plain white cotton robe.

"Fukuzawa- _sensei_ 's two eldest sons just left for school in America. He said you could wear their old kimono. The boys are both tall like their father, like you, so everything should fit well. Put this _nagajuban_ on first." Ryokutō held the undergarment out so I could slide my injured arm in the sleeve, then tied a wide sash around my waist to hold it in place.

The cotton was so fine, so soft and light that I barely felt the weight of it. My fingers smoothed the fabric nervously. "Why would he entrust me with something so expensive? What if it gets dirty? Or torn?"

"He's one of the wealthiest men in Tokyo. And he's grateful - you saved his daughter from a serious injury! Take the clothes and don't worry. He's a kind and generous man."

I slipped my arms into the dark blue kimono that Ryokutō held up for me, marveling at the quiet sweep of silk. In my entire life I had never touched silk, and now, twice within the same week, I had held the forbidden fabric. The thought brought back memories of the yangban girl, the way her pitying gaze became horrified as I defiled her chima with my touch. I still don't know which upset me more, her pity or her horror. What if she met me now, dressed in finery every bit as luxurious as her own? Would she treat me as an equal? Superficial things like money and clothes - were they all it took to get respect?

"How did a sensei become so wealthy?" I asked as Ryokutō finished belting a simple obi around my waist. He shook out a pair of stiff, wide pants, striped white and dark blue. They were unlike anything I had ever worn in Joseon, but I made no complaint as I stepped into them.

"He was in one of the first groups to visit the Western countries after Japan was forced open. When he came back, he published all kinds of books explaining the culture and technology of the foreigners. Maps, dictionaries, books on Western science, education, military techniques - everything you can think of," Ryokutō said as he fastened the ribbons of the _hakama_ tight around my waist.

"And he made enough money to buy this entire estate? Just from books?" I shook my head in disbelief.

Ryokutō snorted. "Books are important, you impudent pup. Don't dismiss the classroom so quickly. This could be a great opportunity. There are other Joseon boys, a few years older than you, already studying here at the university with Fukuzawa-sensei, or at the military academy. Learn from them. You're smart - you memorized every Japanese word I taught you on the voyage here, you only had to hear them once. You may not realize it, but your intelligence is a rare gift. Use it."

I put my head down, shuffling in embarrassment, unused to compliments. "I will."

Now look," he said, holding up the last garment, a quilted overcoat. "I picked this _haori_ out just for you. See the lining?" The outside of the jacket was plain black, but along the inside was embroidered a magpie in flight, the dramatic blue, white, and black coloring of its wings outstretched. "Like your new name, Sho. This is your chance to soar."

My throat clogged with emotion as I put on the coat and he carefully tied the _himo_ to hold it in place across my chest. "Thank you. For everything."

He just nodded, then headed out of the bathhouse, motioning for me to follow. Ryokutō's words continued to swirl around my head as we walked back into the main house. A banquet had been laid out at a huge Western-style table, piled with foods I didn't recognize. I was expecting to retreat back to the kitchen to eat with the other servants, but to my surprise, Fukuzawa waved for me to sit by his side. I nodded my head and thanked him in Japanese, which elicited a hearty laugh. Already uneasy in the stiff, unfamiliar hakama, I slid gingerly onto the chair, not sure how exactly I was supposed to sit on such a contraption, or where I was supposed to put my legs? I surreptitiously glanced at the others and adjusted slowly to match their positions.

So began one of the longest nights of my life. The entire thing seemed unreal - me, dressed like samurai nobility, dining at a banquet with yangban. I spent every second terrified of embarrassing myself, or soiling the expensive clothes I was borrowing, or being called out as an imposter in front of everyone. I watched the movements of the others at the table and mimicked them carefully, from eating the strange raw fish without a grimace, to hiding my shock at receiving an entire bowl of white rice - a whole bowl! - to myself, and eating it slowly, as if it was normal, as if I didn't want to moan with pleasure at every bite. Even the strange Western cooked dough, cut into dry squares, and the oily yellow spread we were supposed to rub on it with a dull knife, even that I ate smoothly as if I had done it a hundred times before. The only dish familiar to me was the one they called tsukimi soba, the buckwheat noodles in broth with egg and radish, which tasted almost exactly like hot naengmyeon. My stomach was swollen to the point of pain by the time the dishes were cleared away, but at least I hadn't committed any social catastrophes.

I avoided the sake, sipping on tea instead, and finally relaxed a little as the others got increasingly drunk and less likely to pay any attention to me. Only Fukuzawa moderated his drinking, growing quiet as he watched the yangban's increasingly rowdy behavior, their loud singing and laughing.

When he stood up, it seemed sudden, and the yangban quieted immediately. Fukuzawa made a long speech in Japanese, little of which I understood, but based on the agitated reactions it didn't seem to please anyone else in the room. After a few minutes of arguing, the yangban pushed back from the table and began preparing to leave. As I copied them, Fukuzawa leaned over to me.

"Koko no ite." He placed one of his hands over mine, encouraging me to stay seated.

Ryokutō came over to exchange farewell bows with Fukuzawa, then met my gaze. "Sensei has agreed to let you stay here at his school. It is a tremendous honor."

I didn't feel honored - I felt panicked at the thought that Ryokutō would be leaving without me. "When will I see you again?"

"I'm going back to Joseon on the next available ship. I need to start assembling the remaining progressives to decide our next move." He placed a hand on my left shoulder. "Remember. Use your intelligence. Make the most of this opportunity."

I swallowed down my fears and nodded, blinking back tears as the Joseon group filed out of the house. I clenched my fists and resolved to seize this moment. I would make Ryokutō proud of me. I would obey the sensei and make a new life for myself.

After the doors had closed, Fukuzawa trod back into the dining room with a weary sigh, rotating his shoulders. When he spotted me, still frozen to the chair, he smiled and waved for me to follow him, heading to a wide flight of wooden stairs. I had never been inside a house with stairs, and I wondered as I followed him cautiously, who could need so much room to build on top of their roof? And how could the beams be strong enough to hold the whole thing up without falling? But the floors seemed study enough, and nothing swayed as we walked down the hall to a tower built along one side. There we took yet more stairs up to an unheard-of third story.

The high tower room was an eight-sided circle with huge windows built along one side. My jaw dropped as I saw the view stretching out across the city all the way to Edo Bay. The ocean rippled under the bright moonlight, ships rocking gently in the distance.

Fukuzawa grinned when he saw my reaction. "Tsuki nami," he said, pointing at the moon, then making an undulating motion with his hands, and finally gesturing to the room.

"Moon. Wave. Tower," I guessed. "Moon wave tower? Tsuki nami?" He nodded, then directed my attention to a pile of bedding that had been arranged on the floor by the window. It seemed unbelievable that I would be allowed to stay here, in the estate house, in this exquisite room, and yet it was true.

" _Oyasumi_ ," Fukuzawa said, nodding his head politely and then turning toward the door.

"Oyasuminasai," I replied, bowing low to his retreating back. Alone in the room, I looked around, dazed. Across from the windows were shelves of books built against the walls. I wandered the length of the strange tower room, walking along the shelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books, row after row, filled from one end to the other, in Japanese and Chinese and even a few in Hangul. Ryokutō would be delighted; perhaps he even had a hand in arranging the whole thing. I began removing the layers of samurai clothing, taking care to lay everything out so it wouldn't wrinkle, moving slowly to avoid popping the stitches on my shoulder. Wearing just the nagajuban, I knelt onto the mattress and slid under the blankets, amazed again by the almost incomprehensible luxury of the smooth, clean cotton.

I turned my head on the pillow to gaze out the windows at the bay. It was hard to believe that I was seeing the same moon that used to shine down on me in Joseon. Not just another country, it was another lifetime ago. In a way, I had been reborn today. And as I promised Ryokutō, I was ready to stretch my wings and soar.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Arigatou gozaimashita: Polite "thank you" in Japanese  
Banchan: Korean side dishes such as kimchi, radish, bean sprouts, etc.  
Chibang: Paper "tablet" on which an ancestor's name is written during _jesa_ (funeral rites).  
Daijōbu: Informal "are you okay" in Japanese  
Gat: Traditional black horsehair hat worn by Korean men in the Joseon era who had passed the civil service examination.  
Hakama. Japanese pants-like (divided skirt) garment typically worn over a man's kimono.  
Haori: Japanese overcoat that typically reaches past the waist, traditionally worn by men.  
Himo: A cord or string, sometimes braided (kumihimo). Various kinds are used with Japanese kimono including a haori himo to tie a haori, and obijime used to tie an obi belt.  
Nagajuban: A Japanese undergarment worn under a kimono. Usually a robe of cotton.  
Oyasuminasai / Oyasumi: "Good night" in Japanese, formal / casual.  
Sensei: Japanese word for teacher.  
Soju: Clear Korean distilled alcoholic beverage made from fermented grain such as rice.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:  
** Dalby, Liza Crihfield. _Kimono: Fashioning Culture_. New Haven, Yale UP, 1993. ****

"Edo Map." , National Association of Japan-America Societies.

Fukuzawa, Yukichi. _The Autobiography of Fukuzawa Yukichi_. Translated by Kiyooka Eiichi, New Translation ed., Tokyo, Hokuseido Press, 1960. Internet Archive.

Janelli, Roger L., and Dawnhee Yim Janelli. _Ancestor Worship and Korean Society_. Stanford UP, 1982.

Kato, Miaki. "Kim Young." _Mita Review_ , no. 100th. Keio University Press.

Kim, Joong-Seop. _Korean Paekjong under Japanese Rule: The Quest for Equality and Human Rights_. Routledge, 2015.


	6. Chapter 6: Lips and Brow

**Title** : Merchant of Death  
 **Author** : setlib  
 **Rating** : T-rated for violence  
 **Pairings** : Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin  
 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 6: Lips and Brow**  
 _Hanseong, Joseon. Spring 1885._

It took until Spring to convince grandfather to let me go to another market day. He was shaken after the coup attempt and kept me safely stuck in the classroom copying Confucian strictures on proper female behavior for hour after hour, day after day. I was careful not to repeat my brief spark of rebellion in front of Aunt Jo again, in hopes she would report my steady obedience back to him. Eventually my patience bore fruit, and on a crisp sunny day when the plum blossoms were just starting to burst forth, I settled into my palanquin and headed to market along with Ms. Haman and Haengrang, who had strict orders not to let me out of their sight.

I desperately wanted to locate the bookseller and purchase a second novel, something Ms. Haman firmly opposed. She blamed my repeated reading of Hong Gildong for putting all sorts of strange ideas in my head, and she wasn't necessarily wrong. But I felt that my eyes had been opened to the desires and frustrations of people different from myself, and that only by understanding others better would I ever become more than a noble fool.

"Noble fool," I whispered under my breath. How that accusation had stung! Like some kind of poisoned thorn, it had worked its way through my chest, past my ribs, deep into my heart. It made me wince in pain at the strangest moments, like when I passed the slaves farming their small plots of land, skinny children playing in the dirt at their feet. Were they happy? I had no idea. I was sheltered from so much; I understood so little.

I sighed, shifting in the palanquin to stretch out my legs, propping my feet against the far side where that boy once sat. No wonder his insults were fresh on my mind - the last time I rode to market was the day we met. I slid the slatted window open slightly to peek outside, trying to recognize the neighborhood we were passing through, but the streets all looked the same to me. Was he still out there somewhere? It occurred to me that there was a chance I could see him in the market today. Not that I wanted to. I certainly had nothing to say to him. But where else could he have gone?

When we finally reached the market, Ms. Haman was beside herself with excitement. "Agassi, the physiognomist is here today! I'm going to get a reading!"

Normally I wouldn't have had much interest in seeing a face reader, but after reading Hong Gildong, my curiosity was heightened. In the book, a greedy physiognomist accepted a bribe from the jealous stepmother and convinced Hong Gildong's father that the boy had the features of a future ruler, which made him a threat to the current king and forced him to leave his home. Could a face reader truly discern someone's destiny from their features? Although I was skeptical, this seemed like a good opportunity to ask some questions.

I followed Ms. Haman into a stall, stepping into the shade of the thatched roof. She sat down on a stool, clearing her throat loudly, and after a moment the face reader emerged from behind a curtain. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps the outrageous red and yellow costume of a mudang, but instead the woman was wearing a modest hanbok and seemed quite normal. "How can I help you today?" she said.

Ms. Haman leaned forward eagerly. "I want to know if I will find a husband," she said. I glanced at her in surprise. She had never mentioned wanting to get married before.

The physiognomist nodded, then looked at me. "Agassi, you'll have to leave. The adults need privacy."

"But I want to have my face read, too!"

"That's not possible," she said brusquely. "The jing doesn't finish shaping the face until maturity, so I can't read the face of a child."

Ms. Haman looked at me apologetically. "It will just take a few minutes. You can look at the stalls nearby. Don't wander off."

I tried not to pout. "All right." I dragged my feet as I left, kicking at pebbles with my hard leather shoes. Before I reached the next shop, however, a voice called out to me from the alley that ran beside the face reader's stall.

A young girl, a few years older than me, waved me to her. "Agassi, I can read your face if you want."

I approached her cautiously. "I thought I was too young?"

"Aish, my mother, she's too strict. Some things aren't set until adulthood, but there's a lot I can tell you already. You'd be surprised." She led me to the back entrance to the stall and we entered the physiognomist's workroom, sitting down at a wide table. Posters were scattered on bookshelves and hung on the walls, offering rewards for runaway slaves and other missing persons.

"Why do you have these wanted posters?" I kept my voice low; I could faintly hear Ms. Haman talking out front, and I didn't want her to know I was back here.

"We help to catch criminals and the like," she said proudly. "Sometimes we can tell things from their faces, and give suggestions to the police about where to look." She settled on a stool across from me and smiled. "I charge less than my mother. Just five mun," she said, holding out one hand with all her fingers outstretched.

I blushed. I had forgotten about the issue of money. "Of course," I said, digging a five-mun coin out of my small embroidered bag and setting it on the table.

The girl slapped her hand over it quickly and held it up to the sunlight. "One of the new coins, huh? It's still shiny!" It disappeared into her hanbok and then she leaned forward, looking at my face intently. "First things first, you're fire element for sure."

"What does that mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone is one of the five elements - fire, water, metal, earth, or wood." She gestured toward my face. "Oval shape, pointed chin, sparkling eyes - clearly fire. That's associated with joy, summer, and the color red. The most important organs are the heart and tongue." At my continued silence, she sighed and explained. "It means your strengths are love and communication."

I nodded, intrigued despite my doubts. Then I glanced at the posters again. "If I drew someone's face, would you be able to read it?"

She shrugged. "That depends on how good of an artist you are." She got up and rummaged around the shelves, pulling out a clean sheet of hanji, an inkstone and some brushes. She laid everything out on the table. "Try to capture every little detail - the shape of the hairline, curve of the ears, thickness of the lips. They're all important."

I closed my eyes to concentrate. Ever since I had read Hong Gildong, I had created an image of the hero in my mind. In the past few months, his face had become as familiar to me as my own. Taking up the brush, I began to draw. "His brow is like the autumn moon," I murmured, sketching a high, round forehead with loose strands of dark hair dusted across it. "His eyebrows are long and full, nose straight, jaw strong." After getting the outline of his features on paper, I went back and filled in the details, paying special attention to the sweep of his eyelids, the curve of his lips. I was so deeply focused that, when I was finished, I had to shake myself out of my daze. The face reader's daughter leaned over the table, studying my drawing carefully.

"He has the element of wood, no doubt." She pointed out various features as she spoke. "You can see it in the strength of the eyebrows, the firm jaw. Season is spring, the time of growth, and color is green. His primary emotion is anger, or passion. People with such a strong wood element are aggressive, dominant, controlling."

I wrinkled my nose. That didn't sound much like Hong Gildong. Did I draw him wrong, or was she reading his face wrong? "That doesn't make him sound like a very nice person."

"It's all about the balance. With the right partner, they can also be highly focused, driven, competitive, and successful." She smiled mischievously. "Wood is actually the ideal partner for your element, fire. Just like wood can help a fire burn, a wood element person can support a fire element person, while fire can release the power inside of wood."

I liked the sound of that. "What about the eyes?"

She smiled again. "You have phoenix eyes. That means you have a strong sense of justice and righteousness, take your responsibilities seriously, and are a good leader. It also means that others are drawn to you, and want to follow you." She pointed to my drawing. "He has tiger eyes. They work perfectly with the wood element personality. It means he makes hard choices, takes action, even uses violence when necessary."

I nodded. That reminded me more of Hong Gildong. "Anything else?"

"Full lips mean generosity, but see how they're slightly etched along the edges? That means his touch can be gentle, when he wants it to be. The deep philtrum - that's the groove between the nose and the upper lip - is a sign of immortality. It tells you he has the vigor and stamina to father many children. And the straight bridge of his nose," her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "means he's good in bed."

I blinked, confused. "Good in bed? Do you mean, he sleeps a lot? Or falls asleep easily?"

She just shook her head, snickering. "Come back when you're a few years older and I'll explain what that means."

Before I could protest, I heard my name called, sharply, from the alley just outside. The curtain was jerked back and Ms. Haman stormed inside, her face red with anger. "Just what do you think you're doing? I told you to wait right outside! Do you know how long we've been looking for you? And the whole time, you were back here -" her gaze fell on the drawing in front of me and she gasped, "- drawing that boy?"

"What do you mean?" My voice rose defensively. "What boy?"

"That baekjeong boy," she said accusingly, pointing at my drawing. When I shook my head, she picked up the ink brush and painted a bloody scar along his forehead over his left eye. Suddenly, everything shifted, and I saw it. Of course. This whole time, all these months, the face that had haunted me every night was his. Ms. Haman picked up the drawing and ripped it in half, and I didn't even protest. I didn't want it anymore.

Ms. Haman shuffled me out of the physiognomist's stall without a backward glance. She finished the rest of her shopping, dragging me along, grumbling under her breath, and I followed meekly. However when we passed the bookseller, I had to speak up.

"Please, Haman-daek. I'm so sorry." I rubbed my hands together pleadingly. "I just wanted a face reading like you! I lost track of time. I didn't mean to worry you. But please let me buy a new book. Please?"

She put her hands on her hips. "That book gave you too many ideas. The last thing you need is another one."

"I'll ask for a book about being a good wife. I won't read anything questionable, I promise. Please? Pleeaase?" The tears in my eyes were real, and after a moment she softened, still frowning, but nodded. I hugged her in thanks and raced into the bookseller's stall.

He must have overheard our argument, because he handed me a book without me having to ask. "You want a story about a good wife? Try this - Lady Pak. I think you'll like it." He gave me a quick wink, and I paid him with the remaining coins in my purse that I had carefully saved from my New Year's gifts.

"Thank you so much!" I waved and then ran back to Ms. Haman, hiding my grin, trying to look responsible and penitent. I cleared my throat. "Are you ready to go home?"

She snorted. "Straight home, and you'll be lucky if your grandfather lets you leave again before you're married."

"You think he'll be that mad at me?" When she nodded, I raised an eyebrow. "But you're the one who was supposed to watch me. How do you think he'd react if I told him you were so distracted with the face reader that anything could have happened to me. I could have gotten lost, or been kidnapped -"

"Agassi! You wouldn't!"

I shrugged. "I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

"You are too clever by half," she grumbled, stalking over to the palanquin and opening the screen so I could climb inside for the journey home. "Fine. I won't say anything. But promise you won't cause any more trouble?"

I settled down inside the palanquin and clutched my new book to my chest. "I promise."

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o  
 **GLOSSARY:**  
Hanji: Traditional, durable, waterproof Korean paper made from the bark of the mulberry tree.  
Mudang: Female shaman in Korea.  
Mun: Coins issued during the Joseon Dynasty. The 5-mun denomination was introduced in 1883.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:**  
Bridges, Lillian. _Face Reading in Chinese Medicine_. 2nd ed., Edinburgh, Churchill Livingstone/Elsevier, 2014.


	7. Chapter 7: Petals and Meat

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.  
 **Content Advisory:** This chapter includes a scene of violence against animals. It is not gratuitous, but is consistent with the time period, culture, and character development.

 **Author's Note:** I'm sorry it took me so long to write this chapter! I had to introduce a bunch of characters who will be important moving forward, but that required even more research than usual. Thank you to all those who took the time to read this so far and comment on my previous chapters. Your encouragement helped me to keep working hard!

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 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 7: Petals and Meat**

 _Tokyo, Japan. Spring 1885._

I had never before understood why people got so excited about blossom viewing in the spring. Trees bloomed, petals fell, so what? The only thing my family had liked about festivals was that they were good for business. Everyone wanted meat, and we used to work day and night to meet the demand. The blossoms that signalled the beginning of spring to other people simply reminded me of death. The splash of dark pink at the core the _sakura_ flowers always made me think of the splatter of blood, and I saw enough of that on my hands every day while I worked, why would I want to gaze up at more of it in my free time?

This year was different. _Hanami_ in Tokyo was more than a festival, it was a national obsession. And rather than working myself into exhaustion, instead I was actually free to visit all the stalls, watch the jugglers and monkey handlers, and enjoy the excitement first-hand. Today it took me hours to wander the length of Shiba Park's extensive grounds, weaving between groups of revelers. People crowded in line for the Tōshō-gū shrine but I lingered back, resting my shoulder against the trunk of the giant ginko tree just outside the entrance. I didn't have any objection to the Shinto religion, or to the first Tokugawa shōgun to whom the shrine was dedicated. Just the opposite - I feared they would have an objection to me. Butchers weren't allowed to defile holy places with our presence, we had to pray at separate temples. Even though no one knew I was baekjeong, even though I was dressed as a samurai noble and had broken myself of the habit of bowing and scraping to others, I still couldn't bring myself to violate this sacred space. I may have fooled the people of Tokyo with my fancy clothes and newly-acquired manners, but the gods could see straight into my soul, and they knew the stains there would never wash out.

As the shadows lengthened and merchants busied themselves lighting lanterns outside their stalls, I got busy as well - making money. Since I couldn't yet read enough of the Chinese classics to qualify to take the entrance exam for Keio University, I had figured out a way to leverage my free time into a profitable venture, running all kinds of errands for the busy scholars. For a small fee, of course. If there was a store anywhere in Mita that sold books, paper, uniforms, or any other necessities, I found it and memorized their inventory and prices. My highest profits, however, came from late-night snack foods, especially beef. As a sign of their modernization, many of the Keio students followed Fukuzawa-sensei's advice to eat beef just like the Europeans. While most traditional Japanese preferred fish and were repulsed by the idea of consuming animal flesh, sensei theorized that the nutrients in red meat would allow the students to grow taller and stronger like Westerners. Considering how much beef Joseon people ate and how much taller they generally were than the Japanese, I thought he might have a point.

Even though it had been nearly fifteen years since Japan legally changed the status of butchers, leather-workers, and other despised professions to the same level as all common people, I had learned in the past few months that superstitions were just as persistent in Japan as they were in Joseon. The students who wanted to snack on beef for their evening study breaks were too afraid to go to the _buraku_ areas themselves to buy it directly. Now that the curfew prohibiting the butchers from leaving the buraku at night had ended, there were stalls closer to campus, or even men willing to deliver meat directly to the student dormitories. But these noble sons of samurai lost all their courage at the thought of a butcher walking through the halls where they slept. The last time one of them had their beef delivered, the others could barely wait until the butcher was gone before they pulled out their flint and started striking sparks to dispel the bad fortune his mere presence incurred. They felt much safer with me making all the deliveries, not knowing, of course, that I was not only a butcher but the son of a murderer, with more bad luck following me than any fire could cleanse.

It was sweet revenge to turn their ignorance and fear into money in my pocket. To further expand my profits, rather than buying meat from the stall closest to campus, I preferred to walk the extra distance to Shiba where the meat was slightly cheaper, while of course I still charged full price. I headed out of the park even as crowds were settling down on blankets under the lantern-lit blossoms, preparing to eat and drink long into the night. Following the sound of the yapping of a pack of feral dogs and the smell of grilling meat, I found the butcher's cart along a street west of the park. As I approached, he greeted me with a low bow and began to prepare my usual order, flipping skewers of beef that were sizzling over a charcoal brazier. I rarely ate any myself because it was suspiciously tough, and I half-suspected he got it from cows that had died of old age rather than been slaughtered.

While I waited, the mournful notes of a stringed instrument drifted through the air and I searched for the source. In the deepening shadows beneath the branches of a great pine tree with a wide, gnarled trunk, a tiny girl held a _shamisen_ nearly as tall as she was. She plucked the strings with a wooden _bachi_ , and I noticed that her chin never tilted down toward the instrument, instead her head was held straight and high. I assumed she was one of the _goze_ , the blind female musicians who performed and taught music throughout the city.

After I paid for my order and collected the package of meat wrapped in a cotton _furoshiki_ , I strolled closer to the girl. Her upturned straw hat, its wide brim frayed along the edges, was set on the ground in front of her to receive coins but was nearly empty. Any money she received would surely have to be turned over to her master at the end of the day, and it didn't seem like her master was spending much on her care. Her leggings and straw sandals were dirty and torn, her long fingernails caked with dirt. But she played with a skill that belied her youth, and as she began to sing a cheerful folk song, her voice was high and clear.

I reached into the butcher's package and pulled out a strip of grilled meat, tossing it lightly into her hat. Her master wouldn't be able to take that away from her. She stopped playing immediately and dove for the hat, snatching up the beef before the sharp-eyed dogs could steal it. As she ate, her head swiveled as if looking for me, but I left without a word.

When I got back to campus I could hear raucous laughter from the common area as I made my way up the stairs of the student dormitory. Whoever thought it was a good idea to house groups of arrogant, rowdy teenage boys together with limited adult supervision was a fool. Bullying was rampant, but I had avoided being targeted because the others didn't quite know how to classify me. I wasn't a student yet, and I lived in Fukuzawa-sensei's house. Even though some of the boys didn't like the idea of Joseon students in their school, sensei had made his support clear, and I had the extra social bonus of having saved his daughter Taki from injury. In addition, I had begun using my delivery profits to extend small loans to the supposedly wealthy boys who often ran out of money by the middle of the month and were stuck waiting for additional funds to arrive from home. By my calculations nearly half of the students were in debt to me already, at an interest rate that would soon surpass my delivery profits.

"Ishida- _kun_!" Takahashi Toshio, one of the students who most liked to brag about his family's former samurai status, never missed a chance to criticize. "I hope the meat is tender this time. I almost broke a tooth on the last batch." The other boys snickered at Takahashi's jibe as I entered the common room. They were supposed to be studying, but usually just lounged on the Western-style tables and chairs gossiping and teasing each other.

"If you don't like it, don't buy it," I replied calmly. "Especially if you're short on money again." That shut him up. I collected coins and passed out all the remaining beef strips except one, which I carried to the back corner behind a bookcase where, as usual, I found Momosuke Iwasaki so deeply immersed in a book of poetry that he hadn't even heard me enter.

I threw the beef on his book, startling him. He blinked, slowly coming out of the flower and willow world of his imagination, then stood with a lopsided grin. "Sho, you're a life-saver. I'm famished." Momosuke was three years older than me, a little taller, but still thin as a reed. Instead of payment, he reached into the pocket of his Western jacket and pulled out the homework I had given him to review. Instead of payment, he was tutoring me in Japanese and Chinese. I slipped the papers quickly into my kimono.

"No money again? Radishes not selling well?" Takahashi called from across the room, provoking a fit of laughter from others watching the exchange. Momosuke's family were farmers, and several people from his hometown were helping to pay his tuition. Takahashi grinned. "Why don't you go down to _Yoshiwara_ and see how much money you can earn with that girly face of yours?"

I had to give credit to Momosuke. For a dreamy-eyed, pretty-faced country boy, he was fast with his fists. He launched himself across the room, and while I looked on with the other students, landed two punches to Takahashi's face before he even got out of his chair. I shook my head and strolled out of the room, leaving the students to their entertainment. This kind of scuffle was a common event and didn't exactly make me eager to start school anytime soon.

When I arrived back at Fukuzawa-sensei's house my leather coin purse was swollen with the evening's profits, its silk cord pulling my sash low. As always, I entered sensei's house through the kitchen door. After learning I was an orphan, the women on the kitchen staff had adopted me almost like a pet, pinching my cheeks and patting my head whenever they saw me. They also frequently put me to work, from using my height to reach the pots on the highest shelves, to carrying water, or helping pound the rice for the glutinous rice cakes on a huge mortar in the back courtyard, using a mallet as large as my head. I didn't mind the work because they always made sure to save my favorite treats for me as a reward - savory gyoza, prawn-stuffed onigiri, and sweet bean mochi - and I never forgot to thank them sincerely. Years of going to bed hungry had taught me to appreciate the simple joy of a full belly.

I had planned to head up to my room after eating, but I changed my mind when I heard the swell of voices coming from the Western-style sitting room. Sensei had always welcomed me to sit in and listen to him talk with his guests. He actually encouraged them to do something he called _enzetsu_ , which sounded like arguing to me, but was supposed to be some kind of formal disagreement to challenge and test each other's ideas. He liked to sponsor these sessions whenever he was preparing a new editorial for his newspaper, the _Jiji shimpō_ , so he could identify and respond to flaws in his arguments. He had even designed a special building on campus dedicated just to public arguing competitions. Some of his Western-inspired customs were stranger than others, but I had come to enjoy listening to these lively discussions.

"Education is the key!" A woman's voice insisted. "Equality cannot be achieved unless girls have truly equal access to a modern education."

I slipped tentatively into the back of the crowd and craned my neck to locate the speaker who was seated on the opposite side of the room near Fukuzawa. She was a young woman, surprisingly so, with a round face and stocky shoulders, but increasingly animated as she continued her argument. "It is no longer sufficient for girls to study the tea ceremony and flower arranging. We must have a Western education in subjects like geography, economics and the sciences. I myself studied Fukuzawa-sensei's essays on learning as a student, and they convinced me that education is critical."

The men in the room murmured at this statement for a moment until a young man in Western dress, who had been standing next to the bold woman, cleared his throat and responded. "I had the honor of seeing the school Kageyama-san and her mother founded in Okayama, based on these principles. But the police unfairly forced her to close the school."

"I was targeted for my work with the Liberal Party reforms. But I will not give up." She looked up at the young man standing at her side, "I must thank Kobayashi-san for being such a loyal friend to my family, for supporting women's rights, and accompanying me here to Tokyo to continue my fight for equality and education." She smiled up at her friend, a smile that made her face glow like the full moon, and he blushed and gave a slight bow in response.

The rest of the room seemed to pause in anticipation for Fukuzawa-sensei's response. After a moment he commented in a soft tone, "Education alone is not enough, for when a woman leaves school to enter a traditional marriage, she has no rights and no freedoms. She must have equality at home to allow her to use the fruits of her education."

I tried to follow the discussion as other voices spoke up in agreement, but I found the entire argument confusing. Were they actually suggesting women and men should be learning the same things, doing the same work? Who would want that?

Fukuzawa-sensei must have seen the confusion on my face, because he called on me. "Ishida-san, it seems you disagree?"

My face flushed, and I was torn between the thrill of being addressed as an equal in such a distinguished crowd, and the horror of standing out and possibly saying something foolish. I swallowed and gathered my courage. I would speak honestly, even if it seemed like I was arguing - or debating - the rest of the group.

I struggled to find the Japanese words to convey my thoughts. "My own mother worked hard every day, but only because my family was poor," I explained tentatively. "If I could ever earn enough money, no wife of mine would have to work until her back ached and her fingers bled." My comment sparked a wave of discussion, and I didn't feel confident enough in my Japanese to add anything further. But my opinion was firm. I would keep my woman at home, surrounded in comfort and luxury, with all the food she could eat, and the only work she would be expected to do was her needlepoint. If I couldn't manage to provide at least that much, then I wasn't man enough to deserve a wife. Besides, what woman would actually want to work outside her home if she had any other choice?

Fukuzawa-sensei waited for the debate to crest before adding his own reflections. "Even though I was born into a samurai family, we were from the lower classes. In fact," he added with a smile, "since my wife is from an upper-class samurai family, technically we should not have been allowed to marry, but even before the Meiji reforms, those old prejudices were weakening. Because my father died when I was a baby, my mother had to rely on her weaving to support me and my four older siblings. So you see, Ishida-san," he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, "I agree with you that an ideal husband should be able to provide for his wife. But life is unpredictable, and if a woman is widowed and doesn't understand basic household finances or have any skills, she - and her children - can fall quickly into poverty. This is why equal education is crucial for a civilized society. Do you agree with that?"

I had never thought of it that way. "Yes, sensei. It was my mother who taught me Hangul, so I agree that women should be educated. I just think that a man's duty is to protect his woman from pain or danger, if he can."

A middle-aged man from the other side of the room, sporting a thick Western-style mustache, spoke up next, his voice low and gruff. "Kageyama-san, do you agree? One of the things I most admire about you is your activism with the Liberal Party, and now your support for the progressive movement in Joseon. Do women like you need to be protected from danger?"

She smiled and replied, "Oi-san, this is exactly why I told my parents I didn't want to marry," and the men in the room exploded in laughter. She turned to me. "You are from Joseon, correct? Your Japanese is very good but I can still hear an accent in your speech."

I flushed again with embarrassment and nodded. I would have to work harder on my pronunciation.

"Poverty isn't just an individual problem, it is an institutional problem," Kageyama-san said. "While the King of Joseon and his aristocrats remain corrupted by greedy politicians, the hard-working common people will continue to starve. Women have every bit as much reason as men to demand reforms, so they should have the right to make their voices heard. While organizing and protesting carries some dangers, it is our duty as humans to fight for - and protect - each other." She turned her gaze to some of the others in the room, including the mustachioed man. "I would risk my life for the cause of righteousness," she added somberly, turning finally toward Fukuzawa.

He took a deep, slow breath before responding. "I have given this a great deal of thought recently, since the failure of our friends in Joseon. It seems that revolution may not be possible after all, since the people do not yet understand the importance of uniting for their own common interests. At this rate, Joseon will fall prey to one of the Western powers and leave Japan vulnerable. There may be no choice but for Japan to act first. I have come to believe that a case of ammunition is of more use than innumerable treaties of friendship. A nation does not come out on top because it is in the right. It is right because it has come out on top."

Cries of "Banzai!" erupted from the room, and the men began all talking excitedly over each other. I decided this was a good time to slip away. But before I could get to the safety of the kitchens, the woman's friend, Kobayashi, caught up with me.

"Fukuzawa-sensei tells me you arrived here with the patriots from Joseon," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Our movement needs all the help we can get. Are you interested in fighting for the people?"

I had no interest in politics, and no intention of signing up for any hare-brained schemes, but I would take whatever work I could get. "I have no love for the yangban. If you need help, I'm available for hire."

He laughed. "Rascal. I may have a job that's perfect for you. I'll be in touch."

By the time I finally made it back to my room, I was exhausted, but my mind raced too quickly to fall asleep. I longed for an evening bath, a luxury that had quickly become a habit, but it was too late. After lighting my small lamp, and carefully removing and folding all my clothes except my nagajuban, I decided to settle my thoughts with a book. I had already read through all of the Hangul volumes that the other Joseon students had donated to the library in the tower room. _Hong Gildong_ was especially popular with them although I didn't like that story - a yangban living in luxury, whining just because he wanted even more than he already had? Spoiled. Running away from home just because of the scheming of some jealous women? Coward.

Instead I turned to the Japanese volumes. I especially liked the martial arts books, and decided to reread Miyamoto Musashi's _The Book of the Five Rings_. Momosuke had been helping me learn the words I didn't already know, and I was fascinated by the description of _kenjutsu_ , especially Musashi's two-sword fighting style. Eventually I drifted off to sleep, and my dreams were filled with the feel of a blade solid in my hands. Shadowy enemies closed in on me from all sides, but every blow I struck failed to connect. The shadows slid ever closer, binding my ankles and wrists like octopus tentacles, creeping across my chest and tightening around my throat until finally they consumed me.

The next morning, memories of the dream disappeared quickly, leaving only a vague unsettled feeling. Fukuzawa-sensei caught me in the kitchens before breakfast and invited me to join him for his morning walk.

"I would be honored, sensei," I replied quickly.

It was common knowledge that Fukuzawa took a long walk each morning and often asked his favorite students to accompany him. I never really thought I would receive an invitation, so I felt nervous and excited following him through the mansion. He picked up his walking stick from the entryway, a straight, smooth piece of wood that reached nearly to his shoulder, and headed out the main doors. He was tall and long-legged, setting off at a steady pace out of the estate grounds and southwest through the streets of Mita to the Furukawa River. We walked along the meandering riverbank, passing beneath groves of huge _keyaki_ trees, their long, high branches covered with spring buds. I struggled a little to keep up with him because I was still adjusting to keeping my feet securely in the thongs of the _geta,_ and maintaining my balance on the wooden blocks of the traditional footwear while walking on the grass, still slick with morning dew, was a challenge.

Fukuzawa stopped for a moment under a tall keyaki and I caught up with him as he bent to pick up a long, straight branch that had fallen from the tree. He turned it in his hand with a satisfied grunt. As I approached, he held it out to me.

"This will make a good walking stick for you," he said. "Strip off the bark, smooth out the knots, but otherwise it's strong and true."

"Thank you, sensei." I took the branch, feeling the weight and length of it. It was nearly perfectly straight and balanced well in my hands, and when I struck one end into the soil, the other end came nearly to my shoulder. "I will use it well."

"Now see if you can keep up," he said with a smile.

I was surprised at how much the walking stick helped. I followed him across the bridge and into a small temple on the other side. It was like many of the temples we had already passed along the river this morning, tucked into a shaded grove, easily identifiable from the outside by the steps leading up to the _omote-mon's_ distinctive sloped roof and heavy tiles. Once we passed inside I realized it was larger than it had seemed, and included a small cemetery in the back.

Fukuzawa stopped in front of a stone marker, no higher than my knees. I tried to read the inscription and was almost certain I could make out the sensei's name.

"This is the grave of our fifth child," he said quietly. "A girl, although we were never able to name her because she died just after birth."

My hands tightened on the rough bark of my walking stick. Memories flooded back, of my mother, year after year, cradling small bundles in blood-soaked white blankets, rocking their still, tiny contents. Of the silent, somber trips to the baekjeong graveyard, and the whispered arguments and accusations between my parents late at night when they thought I was asleep. Each little brother or sister gone before I could even see them, and the rift in my family growing ever deeper.

"I'm so sorry, sensei," I said, my throat clogged with emotion.

He nodded. "My wife and I are grateful for our nine healthy children, but it still doesn't make the pain any less." After another moment, he sighed and turned away.

As I followed him out of the temple and south through the roads that wound, snakelike, between the hills of the old samurai estates, I tried to think of a way to distract both of us from our sad memories. Finally I thought of something that had been bothering me since last night.

"Sensei, may I ask a question?"

"Of course! Young men are supposed to have many questions."

"I was confused by Kageyama-san last night. I think I understand her point about education, but the idea of women participating in political protests seemed - what's the word - extreme. I couldn't tell if you agreed with her."

"My role was to foster a vigorous debate, and to push people further in their thinking. Not to stifle discussion by insisting on my own opinions."

I smiled at his skillful dodging of the question. I tried another approach. "What about your own daughters? I've noticed that none of them go to school."

"Ahhh. Well, I have the ability to educate them at home. My wife makes sure they understand all that they need to know about finances and other issues."

"Would you let them join your debate society? Or a political protest, like Kageyama-san?"

Fukuzawa came to a halt, leaning on his walking stick to regard me steadily. "I respect her passion, but Kageyama-san is too radical in my opinion. Women need to learn enough about finances to run a household, but not to work outside the home. Can you imagine a woman handling the ledgers in a bank?" He chuckled, clearly finding the idea as ludicrous as I did. "The purpose of educating women is to help them become good wives and wise mothers, so they can raise children well. Not to get involved in politics or that sort of thing. As a father, my duty is to see my daughters married well to men who can provide for them."

I nodded in agreement. "You and your wife have created a powerful example. Until I met you, I never knew a marriage could contain so much respect and affection. Especially when you both were from different classes."

He continued walking, and I fell into step beside him. "It's ridiculous for modern men to continue discriminating along the old divisions," Fukuzawa said. "Take the prejudice against merchants, for example. What's wrong with making a profit? Too many of the old samurai are trying to hold on to the faded glory of the past. I would be happy for my own daughters to marry a successful businessman."

"And I would be happy to become a successful businessman."

He burst out laughing. "Are you angling to marry one of my daughters?"

"No - NO! Of course not!" My voice cracked and I winced. "I meant no offense. It would be an honor. But I, I'm not -"

He wiped tears from his eyes, still chuckling. "Don't worry, I won't start planning the wedding yet. Besides, I know you already have a different girl in mind."

I gaped at him, baffled. "I don't have a girl, sensei."

"I know the look of a young man in love. The way you gaze off into the distance, distracted. I've seen it in plenty of other students. There's a girl back in Joseon, isn't there? One you can't forget."

The denials died on my tongue. Of course, I had spun fantasies of one day going back to Joseon. Of becoming rich and powerful and respected, like Fukuzawa-sensei, and of making all the people who'd spat on my family regret it. Of avenging my parents' deaths. And, every now and then, another thought intruded on that vision. I would meet the yangban girl again. I would find some way to pay back the debt I owed her for saving my life. I would show her that I was her equal now, that I didn't need her help or her pity. I didn't dream of marrying her but, just once, I wanted her to look at me with respect. Maybe even admiration.

I shook myself out of my thoughts when sensei came to a stop at the end of a wide paved path in front of another, much larger, temple. The omote-mon was a huge and imposing two-storied structure. Rather than entering through the main gate, we went through a smaller opening to the side, past the monastery building. Fukuzawa-sensei stopped to purchase some sticks of incense from a monk and then headed up a sloped walkway to the cemetery in the back.

"This is Sengaku-ji Temple. Are you familiar with the story of the 47 ronin? What do you think about them?" he asked, pausing at the beginning of a long row of tombstones. They curved around to the left, stone after stone, clustered together in a tight square.

Understanding dawned. The other boys had talked about sensei's affection for the famous story, and his habit of taking students to the cemetery. He always asked for the opinions of the boys he brought here, but he never volunteered his own. I had overheard groups comparing their answers, speculating on what sensei wanted to hear, and whether their answers changed the opportunities he gave them at school. If I had any idea what the "right" answer was, I would give it, but Fukuzawa was such an original thinker that I couldn't assume to know his opinion on any traditional subject. The only thing I could do was give my honest opinion.

"I think the samurai's loyalty was misplaced," I finally answered.

"How so?"

"Their lord, Asano, was too hot-headed. He couldn't handle a little teasing and impulsively attacked a court official who offended him. That is bad strategy. He didn't consider the consequences to his family and retainers. Worse yet, his attack was sloppy - he didn't even kill the official!" I thought back to the book of strategy I had read last night. "He should have held his temper, planned his approach, and when the time was right, struck decisively. Then his men wouldn't have been forced to give their lives to avenge him."

While I was talking, Fukuzawa-sensei handed me one of the sticks of incense and showed me the brazier where I could light it. He did the same and then we walked to a larger tomb where we climbed a few steps, then bent and placed the incense in front of the stone tablet.

"This is Asano's tomb," he said as we both straightened. "Do you think we modern men have anything still to learn from his example?"

I thought for a moment. "A strong leader shouldn't take any action that puts his loyal followers in danger. Not without good cause."

"Regardless of the circumstances, doesn't Confucianism teach us that the relationship between ruler and subject requires absolute loyalty?"

"I don't care what Confucius says," I said, frowning.

Fukuzawa's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Even if you don't believe in his teachings, Confucianism is everywhere in our society." He waved one arm slowly in the air. "It's in the water you drink, the air you breathe, it seeps into your very bones, whether you like it or not. Obeying the five bonds is instinctive."

"Corrupt rulers don't deserve loyalty. If they don't take care of their subjects, they've broken the bond of loyalty first."

"That's an answer only a Joseon man would give, for there the kings have been replaced several times. Here in Japan," he mused, "where the emperor's lineage traces back unbroken to the goddess Amaterasu - if you believe the imperial mythology - to defy him is unthinkable."

I studied sensei's face, looking for any sign that my answers had pleased or angered him, but he maintained a thoughtful silence for the rest of our time at the temple. The sun had risen high enough to begin warming the grass and turning the dew into a light mist as we began the walk back to campus. Fukuzawa's continued silence made me nervous, fearing I had somehow spoiled this time with him. When he finally spoke again, the subject surprised me.

"Last night, Kobayashi-san said that he talked to you."

"Um - yes, sensei."

"And that he may have some work for you."

I wasn't sure where he was headed with these questions. "Of course, I wouldn't cut down on my studying. I'll be sure to continue preparing for the school entrance exam. If you disapprove -"

"I think it would be good for you to help them. I have tried to support your countrymen's progressive efforts with money, and contacts, and my writings. But now the government is watching them too closely, and I have to step back. A young man like you can still escape the notice of the police. You could be very helpful to the cause. Does this interest you?"

"If you think it's a good idea, then I will do it, sensei," I said quickly, hoping to get back in his good graces.

"Well, that's settled then." We passed through the great black gate marking the start of the campus, leftover from when this was a daimyo estate, and arrived back at the mansion. I set my new walking stick next to sensei's outside the front door before following him inside.

The smell of cooking fish drifted through the entryway and my stomach twisted in anticipation. I didn't normally eat breakfast with the family, so I headed directly back to the kitchens where the ladies had saved me a big bowl of miso soup along with white rice, bowls of _nattō_ and pickled radish, and grilled mackerel. I quickly stirred the sticky nattō into the rice with my chopsticks and shoveled huge portions into my mouth, relishing the rich nutty flavor of the fermented soybeans. Within minutes I had demolished the meal, making sure to compliment the ladies for their cooking before I left.

I had a long list of errands to run and was already behind schedule due to my walk with Fukuzawa-sensei. I was distracted all day, replaying our conversation in my head and wondering if I should have answered differently, if I had somehow changed the way he thought about me with my responses. By the time afternoon came around, I found myself back at Shiba Park, looking for the butcher's cart somewhere along the perimeter. I heard the plaintive notes of a shamisen first and followed the sound, thinking the goze might be near the butcher again today. I had my new walking stick with me, making it easier to balance as I crossed over grass and tree roots toward the same large pine where she had played yesterday.

I heard the growling and the sharp cry before I saw the dogs. Instinctively picking up my pace, I rounded the wide tree trunk to find the girl swinging her shamizen wildly to beat back three mongrels that snarled and snapped at her feet. A mangy yellow dog caught the body of the instrument in its jaws, pulling with vicious jerks until the leather ripped away. The dog fell back with the chunk of hide in its mouth, tearing and chewing it while the other two continued their attack.

Without thought, without fear, I studied their movements. Time seemed to slow, leaving me calm and steady-handed, my senses so focused on the scene in front of me that I blocked out all background noises. When an opportunity presented itself, I was ready. The largest of the dogs, a great black beast, charged forward, and without hesitation I swung my walking stick behind me to gather momentum, then brought it down with a sharp crack on the dog's head. Its skull split and it dropped like a stone. Only a sharp yelp, quickly cut short, gave any sign that it was even aware of the moment of its death. The other two dogs sped off, both tugging at the torn piece of leather as they ran away.

Time returned to normal, and the sights and sounds around me flooded back into my awareness. I used my sleeve to wipe away a line of blood that had sprayed across my face and neck, staining the white collar of my nagajuban, and bent to wipe my walking stick on the grass. A few onlookers hung back in groups, talking and pointing. The little girl hugged her broken shamisen to her chest and began to cry. I shuffled uncomfortably, spotting the butcher off to one side. He apparently had been watching the exchange and began walking toward us, a thick-handled knife in his hand. He was a middle-aged man, short but wide-shouldered, clearly experienced in his trade.

"Will you sell the carcass to me?" he asked, pointing to where the dog's body lay crumpled at the base of the pine tree. "I can get a good price for the hide alone."

I tilted my head, considering the offer. "I have two conditions," I said after a moment. "First, give the girl enough skin to repair her shamisen." After the butcher nodded, I continued. "And save the best meat for me. I'll take it instead of the beef."

"Deal!" He grabbed the dog by the hind leg and dragged it over to his cart.

I felt a gentle tugging on my hakama and turned, finding the goze on my left side. "Thank you," she said in a voice still raspy from crying. "They were going to eat me. I know it."

I frowned. Where was her guardian? How could such a small girl, blind no less, be expected to wander around the city and earn money? What other dangers did she face every day? "What's your name?" I asked.

"Ayane," she said with a sniffle. "Using the kanji for 'colorful' and 'sound'."

"I see. Well, Ayane, you were very brave. Those dogs will be scared of you now." I reached into my coin purse and pulled out more money than she probably earned in a week. "Tell your master to have your shamisen fixed. The butcher will give you the leather for it."

As she fingered the gold coins, taking in the denominations, she broke into a wide, gap-toothed smile, bowing repeatedly. "Thank you sir! I will!"

I breathed a sigh of relief once she walked away. What was it about a woman's tears that made men so uncomfortable? I would rather deal with a dozen rapid dogs than one crying girl.

"Yo! Ishida-kun!"

My head jerked up and I scanned the edge of the park for the source of the voice. Two men in Western dress were crossing the avenue toward me, one waving. I recognized them from Fukuzawa-sensei's house last night and headed over to meet them on the sidewalk.

"Kobayashi-san, Oi-san, I'm honored to meet you again," I said, bowing low.

"That was amazing!" Kobayashi exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder. "You slew that beast in one stroke! Have you been studying kendo?"

I shook my head, embarrassed. "I started reading _The Book of the Five Rings_." Of course, I had spent years practicing the strength and speed necessary to deliver a killing blow, removing any hesitation at the idea of taking a life - but that wasn't something I would admit to them.

"You're doing well for a beginner. You show a lot of promise," Kobayashi said. He exchanged glances with Oi, then turned toward me again. "Can you come with us for a moment? There's someone we want you to meet."

Intrigued, I nodded. This morning Fukuzawa had given me his blessing to work with them, but I hadn't expected things to move this quickly. I followed the pair to a traditional inn at the north end of the park. We entered the _ryokan_ , taking off our geta in the entryway and slipping into clean indoor sandals provided by the inn. After we went up a flight of stairs and down a dark hallway, they slid open the door to a room and I trailed after them, nerves suddenly overtaking my curiosity.

Two men were seated in the center of the room beside a small table, sharing drinks and talking. They paused when we entered and then waved Kobayashi and Oi inside while I followed behind them. The man on my right was middle-aged, hair sprinkled with gray. He was leanly muscled and sat still and straight in a traditional kimono, drinking his tea with controlled movements. The man on the left was younger, short and broad-shouldered with a head of thick black hair, and a thin mustache and goatee. He wore round, black-rimmed glasses and Buddhist prayer beads wrapped around his wrist. He was dressed in an informal yukata, frayed along the edges, and leaned back on the tatami mat in a relaxed, informal manner. I would have dismissed him as unimportant, and in fact disregarded the pair of them as just a couple of old friends gossiping away the afternoon, if it weren't for the other men in the room.

Three men stood behind them, tense and on guard, watching Kobayashi, Oi and me with sharp gazes. My eyes widened as I studied them. They were like samurai of old, not because of their formal kimono and hakama, but because they each wore a pair of swords, the hilts protruding out of their sashes. Swords had been illegal to carry in Japan for nearly a decade, and Fukuzawa had insisted he felt no hesitation in getting rid of his, dismissing it as a relic of a bygone era. But seeing these men stand in battle-readiness with their fearful weapons at their sides forced me to reassess the two men sitting on the floor. Who were they to merit armed guards while taking tea in a sleepy inn?

"Toyama-san," Kobayashi said first, bowing to the sloppily-dressed man in glasses, before turning to the older man to bow again, "Uchida-san. This is the Joseon boy we told you about, who came over with Iwata-san."

Toyama smiled broadly and waved me over. "Come, sit. Let us talk to you."

I stepped forward and knelt in front of their table, placing my hands out on the tatami mat in front of my knees and bowing low over them in a show of respect. Toyama was nodding as I straightened, but Uchida's gaze remained steady.

"You have blood on your collar," Uchida remarked calmly, taking a sip of his tea. I noticed that, in contrast to his elegant manners, his hands were roughly calloused, scarred and stained.

Kobayashi began excitedly retelling the story of my encounter with the dog, with Oi adding occasional comments. They made me seem far more fierce and brave than I felt at the time, but I didn't contradict them. I noticed that Toyama's face changed subtly during the retelling. While still friendly, a sharpness entered his gaze, a calculating look that made me think his affable demeanor was a mask.

When the story was done, both men asked me more questions until I found myself recounting the highlights of my journey to Japan, although of course I didn't reveal my baekjeong status. I talked about being orphaned, and relying on the kindness of Fukuzawa to survive.

"He is a wise man, no doubt," Toyama commented. "Very respected. Very kind." He glanced at Uchida. "Perhaps too kind. Do you know what the motto is for that school he founded?"

I shook my head.

"He uses the Western language, Latin, but it means 'the pen is mightier than the sword.'" Toyama snorted. "Can you believe that crap? I know he loves that newspaper of his, and his articles are influential. But there comes a time when words are just words. Talk is just talk. If you want to change things, you have to be willing to take action - to get your hands dirty."

"Or get your hands bloody," Uchida added.

Toyama gestured to one of the guards behind him. "Kurushima, it's time."

The man, Kurushima, slid open a closet door and brought forward a green silk furoshiki containing a large bundle. He set it on the floor at the side of the table between me and Toyama. Kneeling next to the package, he began to untie the wrapping. For a moment my attention was drawn to his swords. The scabbards for his long and short swords were both covered in a rich black lacquer polish, which contrasted with the delicate pink cherry blossom petals painted near the bottom of each. It seemed like a whimsical design for such a deadly instrument and a stern-looking samurai. But all thoughts of weaponry went out of my head as soon as Kurushima finished opening the wrapping.

I gasped. More money than I had ever seen - more money than I thought even existed - was piled inside the furoshiki in neat stacks of paper currency tied into bundles. I leaned forward unconsciously. I had heard of these new banknotes but never seen one myself. Each bore a likeness of Empress Jingū, who supposedly ruled Japan nearly two thousand years ago, and even led an invasion into Ancient Joseon. Each slender piece of paper was worth as much as a gold coin. Thousands, tens of thousands of yen were sitting close enough to touch.

"We need you to take the funds that we've raised to your friend, Iwata-san, in Yokohama."

I stared at him dumbly. "Are you saying you want me," I pointed to myself, to make sure I wasn't misunderstanding, then pointed at the money, "to take this, to Yokohama? But I've never even been to Yokohama! Why me?"

"The government is keeping a close eye on Iwata. If any of us try to meet him, we'll be searched for sure. But a young boy like you, his friend from Joseon - they won't be suspicious."

I swallowed nervously. "What if I'm robbed, or I get lost, or they _do_ search me?"

"I will be there too," Uchida said. "I will meet you at Shinagawa Station at nine tomorrow morning. Don't follow so close that anyone knows we are together, but shadow me and I'll show you the way."

"You would trust me with this - this fortune, this mission - when we just met?"

"I'll tell you a secret, young cub," Toyama said. "Money is easy to get." He reached over and picked up a bundle in his left hand. He held it out to me, and I realized he was missing the end of his middle finger, just past the knuckle. When I didn't reach out to take the money, he laughed and tossed it into my lap. "This is your payment for a job well done. And if you fail, well," he glanced at the samurai behind him, "you'll regret it."

Toyama continued, "Always remember the two most important things in life: money and fear. That's what brings you power. With money and fear, you can control people. You can rule the world."

I nodded. "I'll remember."

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Bachi: A plectrum made of wood or ivory and used to pluck shamisen strings.  
Buraku: Segregated communities in Japan where people who historically worked in certain professions regarded by Shintoism/Buddhism as unclean, such as butchers, leather-workers, etc., were forced to live. During the Tokugawa Shogunate, other groups including beggars, street performers, homeless or displaced persons came to live in buraku neighborhoods as well.  
Enzetsu: Fukuzawa coined the Japanese term for "debate" and built a debate hall on the campus of Keio University in 1875.  
Furoshiki: Traditional Japanese wrapping cloth, ranging from large cotton squares designed to carry things, to small, elaborately decorated silk squares used to wrap presents.  
Geta: Traditional Japanese wooden shoes, like clogs, raised off the ground on two bars.  
Goze: Blind female musicians in Japan, many of whom traveled from city to city and organized into groups or guilds. Expected to be celibate, they were often vulnerable to sexual assault.  
Hanami: Japanese flower viewing festival.  
Kenjutsu: Japanese term meaning "the art of the sword."  
Keyaki: The Zelkova serrata tree, native to Asia. Also called the Japanese elm.  
Kun: Japanese honorific used for young males, male friends, or people of junior status.  
Nattō: Japanese dish of fermented soybeans known for their sticky, slimy texture, strong bean flavor, and purported benefits for health and digestion.  
Omote-mon: Front gate of a Buddhist temple.  
Ryokan: Traditional Japanese inn.  
Sakura: Japanese term for cherry trees and their blossoms.  
San: General polite Japanese honorific term meaning "Mr." or "Ms."  
Shamisen: Long-necked, three-stringed Japanese musical instrument, somewhat like a banjo, with a hollow drum covered with animal skin, traditionally dog or cat skin.  
Shinto: Native religion of Japan. Shrines are Shinto (unlike temples, which are Buddhist).  
Yoshiwara: The prostitution district of Tokyo.

 ** **WORKS CONSULTED:  
**** **Amos, Timothy D.** ** _Embodying Difference: The Making of Burakumin in Modern Japan_** **. Honolulu, U of Hawaiʻi P, 2011.**

 **Groemer, Gerald. "The Guild of the Blind in Tokugawa Japan."**

 ** _Monumenta Nipponica_** **, vol. 56, no. 3, Fall 2001, pp. 349-80. JSTOR.**

 **Hopper, Helen M.**

 ** _Fukuzawa Yukichi: From Samurai to Capitalist_** **. New York, Pearson/Longman, 2005. Library of World Biography.**

 **Hueston, Dave. "Shamisen Faces Crisis as Cat Skins Fall from Favor."**

 ** _Japan Times_** **, 29 Dec. 2016.**

 **Osawa, Teru. "Zenfukuji, Tatsujinji, Shigenobu-ji Temple Yukari."**

 ** _Mita Review_** **, no. 65, Feb. 2012. Keio UP.**

 **Sabey, John Wayne.**

 ** _The Gen'yosha, the Kokuryukai, and Japanese Expansionism_** **. 1972. U of Michigan, PhD dissertation.**

 **Ushioda, Sharlie C. "Fukuda Hideko and the Woman's World of Meiji Japan."**

 ** _Japan in Transition: Thought and Action in the Meiji Era, 1868-1912_** **, edited by Hilary Conroy et al., Rutherford, Fairleigh Dickinson UP, 1984, pp. 276-93.**

 **Wallace, Irving. "Watch That Dragon." The American Legion Magazine, vol. 30, no. 1, Jan. 1941, pp. 12-13,-44-46.**


	8. Chapter 8: Dust and Dance

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 8: Dust and Dance**

 _Hanseong, Joseon. Late Summer, 1885._

"Please, Ms. Haman? Pleeeaassee?"

The other servants working in the kitchen cast me sidelong glances, suppressing smiles, but Ms. Haman was stone-faced as she sat next to them. She continued rolling the rice flour dough between her palms, not sparing me a glance as she scooped up a finger's worth of chestnut paste and wrapped the dough around it, expertly forming it into a smooth half-moon shape. She placed the _songpyeon_ onto a bed of pine needles in the ceramic steamer and then took another ball of dough to start the process over again.

I hated the whine in my voice but I was getting desperate. "I'm old enough to go," I insisted.

"Your cousin doesn't ask me for things like this," she grumbled under her breath, quickly finishing another rice cake.

I scowled. "Ae-soon never wants to do anything fun." I knelt by Ms. Haman's side, my hands on the sleeve of her jeogori. "It's only one night a year. If I don't go tonight, I have to wait until next year's _Chuseok_."

"It's not for yangban, Agassi. It's for farmers and villagers and the like."

"But you go every year, and you're not a farmer." I thought my logic was infallible, but Ms. Haman's frown only deepened. "You said yourself, only women are allowed. I'll be perfectly safe if I'm with you."

She shook her head. "I doubt your grandfather will see it that way. The _Ganggang Sullae_ is a folk dance, for the common people. Not for a young lady."

I stood up and kicked at the stone fireplace, crossing my arms. "Maybe I don't want to be a lady! Did you ever think of that? I can do anything a commoner can do!"

The other women laughed, but Ms. Haman just sighed. "Now is not the time for a temper tantrum, Agassi." She nodded at the kitchen, full of busy servants working up a sweat in the early autumn light. "We have to hurry to finish preparing all the food for your ancestors' memorial rites this morning. You and I can talk more about the dance later. For now, if you want to prove that you're just as capable as a commoner, then make yourself useful and go fetch some fruit from the garden."

I stomped out of the kitchen, frustrated, and headed back to the kitchen garden. It was so unfair! What good was it being a lady when I didn't get to do anything I wanted? Commoners had more freedom that I did! Well, I could do anything a commoner could do. If Ms. Haman wanted fruit, that's what she would get!

I was so consumed with my own thoughts that, when I finally noticed the movement in the corner of the garden, I had to stare for a moment to figure out what was happening. A small girl, close to my age, in a dusty white hanbok was leaning with one hand braced against our inner courtyard wall, throwing young cabbages one by one up to a young boy perched precariously on top of the wall. He caught each one and passed them to someone else I couldn't see on the other side. She then moved to the basket of extra fruit we had purchased for our Chuseok ancestral offerings, snatching ripe orange persimmons and pale round pears to throw to the boy.

Ms. Haman came around the corner, clearly looking for me, but she instantly spotted the intruders. "You there! Thief! Stop this instant!" she cried, bolting across the garden.

The girl began scrambling up the stone wall as the boy leaned down to grab her hand. She braced her foot against a large clay _ongii_ , no doubt expecting it to be packed full of fermenting kimchi and heavy enough to support her weight. But unfortunately for her it was empty and when she pushed against it, the pot fell over with a crash. She collapsed on top of the wreckage, crying out as a jagged shard sliced her left calf. Ms. Haman had almost reached her when the boy, with a last panicked look, disappeared over the wall.

"Come back, you!" Ms. Haman shouted, trying to jump and pull herself up to see over the wall. "Scoundrel! Just wait until I catch you!"

I pulled up my skirts and ran across the garden to the injured girl. "Are you all right? Can you stand?" I reached out a hand but she shrank back with a whimper.

The small sound attracted Ms. Haman's attention. She propped her hands on her hips, looking down at the intruder without sympathy. "Serves you right! What makes you think you can steal from a great household like this? And in broad daylight no less!"

I knelt next to the girl. "Ms. Haman, she's hurt. We need to treat her leg."

She snorted. "Let the police worry about that after they arrest her."

"No!" I linked arms with the girl and pulled her up, ignoring her pained cry. "We'll take her to my room and treat her injuries there," I said in my most authoritative voice, pinning Ms. Haman with a firm look.

After a bit of grumbling, Ms. Haman trailed reluctantly after us. The girl moved quickly despite her limp, and with all the other servants focused on preparations for Chuseok, we were able to sneak into my room without anyone noticing.

"I have water. Ms. Haman, find cloth for bandages," I said as I helped lower the girl to the floor.

"My lady, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have stolen from you. It was wrong," she rubbed her palms together in a gesture begging forgiveness.

"It's too late for that," Ms. Haman said, sliding the door closed behind us.

"I accept your apology," I said, despite Ms. Haman's scoffing. "Now show me your leg so we can get you cleaned up."

The girl pulled up her chima enough for us to see the long, bloody cut on her leg. She sniffled, fat tears sliding down her face as I used a cloth dipped in water to clean not just the blood, but the caked dirt that covered her skin.

"I'm really sorry," she whispered miserably. "It's just that - with the famine, my family couldn't afford-"

"That's no excuse for stealing!" Ms. Haman barked out. "Go register with the Relief Office, like everyone else."

I looked more closely at the girl, taking in her sunken eyes, her thin face, and the red dust that clung to her formerly white clothing. I had overheard the servants saying that the drought had been especially bad this spring, that most of the rice crops had failed, and the summer rains had fallen too little, too late. Now the northern winds kicked up great clouds of choking dust every day, and even the cattle were suffering without enough grain to eat. Such concerns had always seemed far away as long as our household had plenty of food, and I hadn't really thought about the difficulties commoners were facing until now.

The girl shifted uncomfortably as I cleaned the last of the dirt out of her wound. "My family can't get food aid. That's only for farmers. We're baekjeong," she admitted quietly.

Ms. Haman and I froze, our gazes meeting for a moment. I tried to give the girl a reassuring smile, but Ms. Haman countered, "If your family needs food, you should have taken rice. Why were you stealing luxuries like persimmons and pears?"

"It was for my mother's ancestral rites. We can't afford to buy the food for her memorial table."

"Spirits starve in a poor household," Ms. Haman mumbled under her breath. Subdued, she pulled one of my old white cotton undergarments from a chest and began to tear it into long strips, handing them to me.

The girl flinched as I started wrapping the cotton tightly around her calf, and I tried to think of a way to make her more comfortable. "What's your name?" I asked.

"Sun-ja," she replied hesitantly.

"Well, Sun-ja, you and I have something in common. I'll be making offerings to my mother today too. And my father. Both of their spirits are in the afterlife."

"I'm sorry, my lady."

I smiled reassuringly. "You don't have to be sorry. But I know what it's like, missing a parent. Wondering if they're looking down on you. Hoping they're proud."

The girl nodded. "It's been two years, and my youngest brother doesn't even remember our mother's face anymore. I'm the closest thing to a mother he's ever known."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Two brothers and two sisters, all younger than me," she said with a pride that was almost maternal.

"I'm sure you work hard to take care of your family. I don't have any memory of my parents. Ms. Haman is like a mother and father to me." I glanced over at Ms. Haman, who was surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes, then smiled as I finished bandaging the girl's leg and tied the cloth tight. "You can take fruit with you, and rice, and songpyeon, and whatever else you need. Ms. Haman and I can drop you off at Banchon on our way to the Ganggang Sullae."

"Tsk. Agassi, I know how much you want to go, but I have to think of your safety -"

"Ms. Haman, just listen." I leapt up and ran over to my trunk, opening it and digging under layers of winter bedding to find the book I had carefully hidden away.

"Oh no, not again. Nothing good ever came out of reading novels."

"You'll like it, I promise." I settled back onto my floor cushion, my silk skirts billowing around me. The girl watched silently, eyes wide. " _Lady Pak_ is the story of a Daoist magician, immortal and powerful, reborn as a mortal woman. At first she has a beastly appearance, so her husband neglects her. But her prophecies come true, and she helps her family find wealth and prosperity -"

"Agassi, I've got to go help in the kitchens," Ms. Haman said with a sigh. "I really don't see how -"

"Just wait, you'll see," I insisted. "Lady Pak warned the King about an invasion of the Manchu, but he didn't listen, so the city fell to foreign invaders. When the barbarian general came to her land with his army, she used her magic to empower her maidservant, Kyehwa, to repel the attackers."

Ms. Haman's interest seemed to perk up at that point, so I forged ahead. "Kyehwa used a great sword to strike down the general's brother, cutting off his head. Lady Pak's magic brought storms and wind to confuse the barbarian horde. The trees and animals responded to her commands, attacking the invaders until their corpses piled high. They fired their arrows and even used gunpowder, but nothing could get past the Lady's magic and her maid's bravery."

I opened the book and began to read some of the more dramatic passages, focusing on sections when the maid challenged and defeated the enemy generals. By the end of the story, Ms. Haman's eyes were as wide as Sun-ja's. I closed the book with satisfied sigh.

"You're like Kyehwa," I told Ms. Haman. "You're bold and brave. And while I'm stuck in the inner quarters, you can go forth and take action. The two of us, if we work together, we could accomplish great things. Just like Lady Pak."

Ms. Haman nodded, and I knew I had finally found the right approach. Instead of begging, or protesting, or ordering to get her cooperation, I had to partner with her. To treat her as an ally rather than a servant. She had to _want_ to help me, by her own choice. And just as I'd hoped, she didn't protest any more, not the girl's presence or the idea of taking me to the dance. She only reminded me not to be late to the memorial rites.

"Stay here and rest," I told Sun-ja. "You'll be safe. As soon as we're done with _Charye_ , we'll be back, and then this evening we can take you home."

Sun-ja said nothing, sitting still with her arms wrapped around her legs as she watched us leave. I was distracted throughout the memorial rites - not that women had much to do except watch - and felt impatient to return to my room. But when we finally got back, the girl had vanished.

"Why didn't she wait?" I said to Ms. Haman. "She was injured. We could have helped her!"

"People aren't like puppies, Agassi. You can't just scoop them up off the street and save them. Even the baekjeong have their pride."

"Pride? What good is pride when you're starving, or injured?" Even though we were talking about the girl, it was the image of the baekjeong boy that sprang involuntarily into my mind.

"You have your pride, too. Would you be willing to give it up so easily?"

I didn't know what to say to that.

Ms. Haman smiled then, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I have a surprise for you. Wait just a moment, Agassi." She scurried out of my room and was gone for a matter of minutes before returning with a bundle of white cloth in her arms.

"What have you got there?"

"A disguise." She shook out a plain white cotton chima and jeogori similar to what Sun-ja had been wearing. "Your grandfather would never approve of you going to the Ganggang Sullae. And the dancers would feel uncomfortable with a yangban there. But, if you dress like a commoner, you can sneak out with me tonight and do all the things that commoners can do, just like you wanted."

I leapt up and wrapped my arms around her with a squeal of excitement. "You're the best! Thank you! Thank you so much!"

I was beside myself with anticipation the rest of the day, impatiently pacing as the sun took its slow, sweet time in setting. Despite all the holiday feasting and the games the servants played in our courtyard, I couldn't enjoy any of it. Finally the moon rose, full and lustrous, and Ms. Haman appeared in a plain white hanbok to help me dress in my disguise. The cotton of the commoner's clothing felt rough and heavy against my skin, but I didn't mind. She styled my hair in a plain braid wrapped at the base of my neck and didn't let me add any ornamentation to it, not even a _daenggi_ , insisting the simpler the better.

"The trick to pulling this off, Agassi, is to look like you belong," Ms. Haman said, making a final adjustment to the simple bow tying my jeogori. "Don't let any doubt show on your face. If you believe you have the right to be there, then others will believe it too."

I nodded and followed her outside, where she helped me slide my feet into a new pair of coarse straw sandals. As we crossed the courtyard toward the main gate of the house, I could see a few other female servants and their daughters leaving as well. I stayed close behind Ms. Haman and kept my head down, sure that someone would notice and call me out at any moment. However, incredibly, I was able to walk right through our gate without being recognized, down the steps and into the streets of Hanseong just like any commoner.

Once we got further from the house and I gradually became more confident that no one would stop me, I lifted my head and looked around. Although a few lanterns were lit along the stone walls and bridges, we could see where we were going just by the light of the harvest moon. It was the hour of the pig, and only women were allowed out on the streets. Still, it was the closest thing to freedom I had ever felt, to be able to walk through the city on my own two feet instead of being confined to a palanquin. Without the silk robes that served as symbols of my rank, no one bowed to me, or called me 'My Lady,' or guarded their tongue in my presence. Thanks to my disguise, I blended in with everyone else on the streets. I was almost invisible, and there was something incredibly thrilling and liberating about that. If no one noticed me, then no one could judge me. No one could stop me.

We were headed south toward Mount Namsan and merged with groups of other women talking excitedly. Some recognized and called out to Ms. Haman, who responded with a broad smile and greeting. They were servants of other great families, and she introduced me as simply a maid from the household. Together, we all walked first along a wide avenue with a gentle incline until we reached the base of the mountain, where we began to climb flight after flight of ancient stone steps. My heart was pounding, my breathing uneven, by the time we reached a plateau near the southern line of the fortress wall that encircled Hanseong.

Nearly a hundred women had gathered in a clearing. The bright light of the full moon reflected off their white hanboks, illuminating the area with an almost magical glow. Gossip, laughter, smiles and hugs filled the air, and I was awestruck with the overwhelming feeling of sisterhood. Without any orders or instruction, natural groups began to form, circles of women gathering in friendly clusters. I followed Ms. Haman to a group of women who welcomed her warmly, and by extension, accepted me unquestioningly as well even though I was the youngest person there.

Suddenly an elderly woman's voice rang out across the clearing, strong and loud despite her raspy tone. Our group closed into a tight circle and I joined hands with Ms. Haman on my right and a slender, tall woman on my left. The circle began to take slow, small steps to the right as the singer began, "The moon is rising, over the east sea."

" _Ganggangsullae_ ," all the women chanted back to her, high and clear. The refrain was a warning, a comfort, and support.

"My love has gone far, gone far from me," she called plaintively.

" _Ganggangsullae_ ," I joined in the song, stepping carefully with the rest. There was no music, no drums, only the leader's voice and our responses, which started to get faster and faster.

Why did you leave, on Harvest Moon Day?  
 _Ganggangsullae_  
Where have you gone, so far far away?  
 _Ganggangsullae_  
I will wait for you, until you are free,  
 _Ganggangsullae_  
Until you come back, come back to me.  
 _Ganggangsullae_  
My voice will guide you, to help find your way,  
 _Ganggangsullae_  
For your return, my love, I will pray.  
 _Ganggangsullae_

By the end of the song we were practically flying in a circle, skipping and swinging our arms, and I was breathless with laughter. The circle broke apart and then, as a new woman began to call another song, reformed again. Sometimes we moved in a line, like a mouse's tail; sometimes we formed a spiral, like a seashell. Once, we even bent and held onto each other's hips while one woman walked on our backs as if she was crossing a bridge. I had never had so much fun, never felt such an overwhelming sense of friendship, of sisterhood. When the sun finally rose I was exhausted and exhilarated.

Ms. Haman and I walked slowly back home, sometimes humming under our breath, sometimes holding hands as if we could recapture some of the magic of the evening. Only a few servants were awake, starting the early morning cooking fires, and we were able to sneak back into my room unseen.

"Well, Agassi, was it everything you hoped it would be?"

"It was a hundred times better!" I said, taking off the plain white hanbok. My socks and the bottom of the skirts were coated with red dust from the long night of dancing, and the sight reminded me of Sun-ja. "I think this disguise of yours was perfect. I was able to blend in with everyone else."

She nodded. "You can wear it again at Chuseok next year."

"Or, I could wear it again before that."

"Huh? When? What are you talking about?"

I shrugged. "You never know, Ms. Haman, if there might be a need. Remember, the two of us, if we work together, we could accomplish great things."

The truth was, I didn't know when or where, I just knew that I wanted to experience the freedom of my disguise again. I needed it. Now that I had felt the chance to spread my wings, I couldn't stand the thought of being forever caged.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Charye: Ancestral memorial rite performed during Chuseok with the offering of special food.  
Chuseok: Korean harvest or "thanksgiving" festival celebrated on the fifteenth day (the full moon day) of the eighth lunar month, which typically falls in September/October.  
Daenggi: A ribbon, often red in color and tied to the end of a woman's braid in Joseon.  
Ganggang Sullae: Female Korean ring dance performed on the night of Chuseok, designated an Important Intangible Cultural Treasure by UNESCO.  
Onggi: Traditional Korean household clay pot or bowl with many sizes and uses. After glazing and firing, its porous qualities make it well-suited for fermenting foods like kimchi and soybeans.  
Songpyeon: Korean rice cakes shaped like a half moon that contain sweetened fillings and are steamed over pine needles, traditionally prepared for Chuseok.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:**

 _Premodern Korean Literary Prose: An Anthology_ , edited by Michael J. Pettid et al., New York, Columbia UP, 2018.

"Ganggangsullae." Youtube, uploaded by UNESCO, 25 Sept. 2009.

Karlsson, Anders. "Famine Relief, Social Order, and State Performance in Late Choson Korea." _The Journal of Korean Studies_ , vol. 12, no. 1, Fall 2007, pp. 113-41. JSTOR.

Kim, Myung-ja. "Harvest Festival." _Encyclopedia of Korean Folk Culture_ , National Folk Museum of Korea.

Mimi. "A Guide to Joseon Hairstyles and Headgears." The Talking Cupboard, 17 Apr. 2013

Sohn, Ho-min. _Korean Language in Culture and Society_. Honolulu, U of Hawaii P, 2006.

Yi, I-hwa. _Korea's Pastimes and Customs: A Social History_. Homa & Sekey Books, 2006.

Yoon, Sook-ja. "Songpyeon." _Encyclopedia of Korean Folk Culture_ , National Folk Museum of Korea.


	9. Chapter 9: Rail and Blade

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 9: Rail and Blade**

 _Tokyo, Japan. Spring 1885._

Sleep was impossible. I sat up on my mattress in the dark and stared out the window at the white-tipped waves moving slowly across Edo Bay. Every time I started to drift off to sleep, I clutched the furoshiki full of money closer to me, terrified that it would somehow get lost or stolen if I took my eyes off it for even a second. I didn't trust anyone, especially not the students. If any of them knew the fortune I held they would surely scheme to take it, leaving me to the punishment of those three fearsome samurai.

I had been in a daze when I returned to school last night, although I tried to act as normal as possible to avoid arousing any suspicion. I passed out grilled meat to the students in the dormitory as usual, barely able to enjoy the irony as they complimented me on the tenderness and taste of that night's batch. Of course it was better than usual. All Joseon people knew that dog meat was more tender than beef, with a richer flavor - although if those pampered Japanese boys had known the truth about what they were eating, they would have recoiled in revulsion.

I retreated to my room as soon as that chore was done, setting the bag of money down in the middle of the floor and staring at it as though it was a venomous serpent, ready to strike. An unimaginable fortune, entrusted to me by near strangers? This was some kind of test, no doubt, with stakes that made my stomach twist in anxiety. And yet, the opportunity this represented was too good to pass up. By dawn my swirling hopes and fears had coalesced into a calm sense of purpose. I would prove myself. I would pass this test. And I would reap the rewards.

I started out early, grabbing my walking stick and heading northeast to pass through Shiba Park while it was still quiet. I had only seen Shimbashi station a few times, always when I was running errands to Ginza for the students. My first trip to the area was to deliver a broken pocket watch to the clock-dealer, Hattori, for repair at his store in Kyobashi, just north of Ginza. I had walked wide-eyed and amazed through its wide avenues, staring at everything from its Western brick buildings with their strange columns and glass windows facing the street, to the horse-drawn trolley cars, streetlights, and array of foreign objects in the shops. One merchant even displayed a huge snake in his front window, as wide around as my thigh, apparently captured in the jungles of the Americas where such beasts were common.

I had been more composed the next time I visited Ginza to pick up the repaired timepiece, consulting it idly as I walked through the streets. Fukuzawa had a clock in his house, of course, and I had learned to read it even though it didn't seem like a useful skill. Why would anyone need to know the time down to the minute, or even the second? The temple bells rang five times a day, and that had always been enough. I couldn't imagine then how the recent obsession with Western concepts like time-keeping would be helpful to anyone.

Of course, at the moment I wished I had a watch of my own, had that handheld reassurance that I wasn't going to miss my train. Until now I had only stood on Shimbashi bridge and watched from a distance as the iron carriage belched its choking black smoke, with just the vaguest idea how a train actually worked. Fortunately this morning I arrived early - extremely early, more than an hour early according to the large clock hanging in the station. Perfect. I would make good use of the time.

I climbed the stone steps and entered the station, studying the patterns of the passengers and employees. The station attendants wore crisp Western uniforms and scurried around pointing and barking self-important orders as if they were police, but they weren't. Nevertheless I was careful to school my face into an expression of bored superiority, my fine samurai clothing and confident posture a shield that deflected most minor interference. Extra baggage was weighed and tagged for a separate train car, perhaps explaining why Toyama-san hadn't given me the money in a bag or satchel. The ends of the furoshiki were tied across my chest, the stacks of paper yen wrapped tight and pressed against my back where I could reach behind me and touch them anytime for reassurance that nothing was missing.

When the time for the early train approached, the crowds thinned out as people boarded. To avoid any unwanted attention, I went to the shop in the corner that sold cigars and newspapers and purchased the latest issue of Fukuzawa's own _Jiji shimpō_ , settling on a bench to pretend to read. As hard as I'd been studying the last few months, I could only understand less than a third of the _kanji_ in the paper. Still, a large article caught my eye immediately, _Datsu-A Ron_ , 'Goodbye Asia', because in it I recognized the symbol for Joseon. I could read a few of the other words, such as 'civilization' and 'independence', reminding me of the debate at Fukuzawa's house a few nights ago, but there were too many characters I still didn't know and the overall argument escaped my grasp. Frustrated, I let my gaze roam around the station instead, periodically checking the clock and studying the flow of traffic as gradually more people arrived for the next train.

Fifteen minutes before nine, just as I was nervously contemplating what to do if he didn't show up, Uchida-san strolled calmly into the station. His geta snapped sharply against the wooden floor as he entered the line for the first-class tickets. I slowly folded my newspaper and stretched, letting a few other people get in line behind him before I followed. I had to suppress a grimace as I fished the money out of my coin purse for the ticket - an entire yen seemed like an extravagant expense when a rickshaw to Yokohama cost half as much, and a steamship ride half of that - all together it was enough money to buy half a year's worth of rice. Apparently people were willing to spend a small fortune for the convenience of being able to travel there and back in the same day. But of course money always determined how others treated you, and it was a good bet that the first-class passengers would be spared the indignities of any kind of search or interference by the station personnel.

Without a glance in my direction, Uchida moved into the first class waiting room and I followed, leaning against the wall rather than sitting down again. Ladies waited in a separate space on the far side; a staircase wound along the wall to a restaurant on the second floor. I kept my face neutral and my gaze light, touching on people here and there without lingering long enough to attract any attention, but always returning to study the strange old samurai as he faced away from me, toward the platforms. He carried a Western-style cane, shorter than my own walking stick, highly polished and topped with a carving of a boar on the handle. He sat erect on the wooden bench, legs wide in a pair of navy hakama, palms folded together on top of the cane, and I noticed again that his hands were gnarled and stained in a way that belied his gentlemanly appearance.

When the attendant announced that it was time to board, I walked ahead of Uchida to join the small number of first-class passengers heading out to the platforms. Breathing deep and slow, I calmed my nerves as I handed over my ticket. The attendant barely spared me a glance and I felt my tension ease as I climbed into the carriage with the furoshiki full of yen secure on my back. The first-class cabins had long benches that stretched the length of either side of the car, covered in thick red cushions so elaborate that I had to fight the urge to take off my shoes before entering such an elegantly appointed space. I took a seat and then opened my newspaper again, feigning disinterest as the other passengers boarded. There weren't many people riding in first-class, merchants by the look of them, because who else could afford the fare? Uchida was the last to board and he sat on the same side of the car, just one cushion down from me, while the next nearest passenger was several feet away.

Despite my best attempts to look calm, I started when the shrill whistle blew, forgetting my newspaper and looking excitedly out the window as the train shuddered into motion. It built speed slowly, the engine hacking and wheezing like an old man in winter. But when it finally got going, the speed was dizzying. We flew past buildings and people like a great black bird, emerging south of the city to race past wide open rice fields on my right and boats floating in the bay to my left. My heart pounded with excitement and when I caught a glance of Uchida's face, he was watching me with a wry smile. Embarrassed, I tore my gaze away from the window and forced myself to stare blindly back down at my newspaper.

"It's only natural, Ishida-kun, to relish your first train ride." His voice was soft enough that none of the other passengers could hear him over the roar of the engines, and he turned his steady regard to the handle of his cane as he spoke. "You've done well so far. When we arrive in Yokohama, hire a rickshaw to take you to the Grand Hotel. Our friend is staying in room twelve. After you give him the package, tell him I'll be waiting to meet him at the One Hundred Steps Teahouse."

I nodded, and he didn't speak again for the rest of the ride. I wasn't sure why he felt the need for such secrecy - there were no police on the train, and while it was possible one of the other passengers could have been following Uchida, nothing about their behavior seemed suspicious. Perhaps it was all just an elaborate test. More people boarded at each station and the carriage grew increasingly crowded until we reached Yokohama, according to the station clock, less than an hour after we had started.

I followed his instructions exactly, careful not to look back at him as I hired a rickshaw and rode away. I paid close attention to our route so that I would be able to find my way back on my own. I was reminded of Ginza as we crossed over a river on a wide bridge and wound through city streets lined with tall Western-style buildings of stone and brick. In this part of the city, it didn't really feel like we were in Japan anymore. Is this what Europe looked like, block after block of pale columns, reaching up to the sky like bony fingers? I preferred the warm wood of Japanese buildings, with all their curves and imperfections, to the rigid symmetry of these foreign forms.

The rickshaw runner approached Yokohama Bay and crossed another bridge, coming to a stop in front of a two-story brick building with row upon row of glass windows on both floors. The hotel stretched the length of the canal and then bent to the left with a second wing looking out across the bay. I scanned the area carefully as I paid the runner and entered the main doors into a wide open room. Several seating areas were arranged in corners to my right and left, some with other guests engaged in quiet conversation. I felt strange keeping my geta on while inside, but unlike a Japanese ryokan, there were no shelves provided to exchange my outdoor shoes for slippers, and the other guests all wore their Western leather shoes still. A large wooden desk pulled me across the room where I saw uniformed employees but no police or guards. Suppressing my nervousness, I asked for room twelve, following the attendant's instructions to head up the stairs.

The stacks of yen tied to my back seemed to weigh as much as gold bars, a burden I was eager to unload as soon as possible. But when I reached the top of the stairs and turned right as instructed, a hitch in my step was the only sign of surprise I gave when I saw two uniformed police standing in the middle of the hallway outside one of the rooms. I knew immediately that was the room I needed, and that I absolutely would be searched if I asked for admittance. I walked slowly and calmly past the door to room twelve, acknowledging the police with a nod of my head and reaching the end of the hallway, turning left as I entered the wing that faced the bay. Even after I had turned down the next hallway, out of sight of the police, I kept my footsteps at a constant pace in case they were listening. My movements were steady but my heart thundered and my mind raced. I had to make this delivery. I couldn't get caught. What were my options?

I reached the stairway at the end of the second wing and paused to gather my thoughts, leaning against the Western glass window that looked out onto the water. It had been opened slightly to allow the springtime ocean breeze to carry fresh air inside, and I had a flash of inspiration. Shouldering the window open further, I leaned out and studied the decorative stone ledge that stretched the length of the building between the first and second floors. Before I could think too much about it, I tucked my walking stick and geta in the corner and pulled myself out the window. My toes gripped the rough stone ledge and I stepped carefully from one window to the next, sliding along the edge of the building. The wind whipped through the ends of my kimono but my grasp on the brick was strong. Step by step, window by window, I moved quickly and steadily, rounding the corner of the wing and counting my way to room twelve.

Their window was slightly open as well and I could hear Joseon voices arguing in the room. I peered carefully through the glass to confirm there were no police inside, then jerked the window open and practically threw myself inside, landing in a heap on the floor. The conversation halted and I looked up to see Iwata and the other activists staring at me, mouths agape.

I stood smoothly, attempting to recover some of my dignity, and greeted the yangban with a respectful bow. "I have a delivery from Toyama-san," I explained quickly, pulling the furoshiki off my back and setting it on a low table. The men crowded around and, when I untied the edges to reveal its contents, they erupted into excited cries.

"Just as promised," Iwata said, nodding happily. "I knew they would come through for us." He clapped the others on their backs in celebration. "This is just the beginning. Weapons, men, ships - we'll get everything we need, and finish what we started."

While the others settled down to count through the money, Iwata seemed to remember that I was there. "Do you have any other message for us, boy?"

"Uchida-san would like you to meet him at the One Hundred Steps Teahouse."

"Of course." Iwata nodded at the others. "Hide that well, and let's head out." He adjusted his necktie and put on a Western jacket, halfway to the door before he turned back to me. "You'll have to leave the same way you entered. We can't raise suspicions."

I bit my lip and bowed again to hide my disdain, pulling myself back out the window while the others were still gathering up their cash. My fingers and toes were stone-scraped and bleeding by the time I made it back to the stairwell, but the pain was worth it. I had accomplished my mission. I had proven myself. The sense of satisfaction I felt more than soothed any discomfort.

I walked confidently out of the hotel, past the waiting rickshaws and over the canal bridge before I realized that I hadn't received any instructions about how to report back to Uchida. I asked a passer-by for directions to the teahouse and headed there, far behind the others. After walking west toward the steep hill called Sengen-yama for about ten minutes, I crossed another large bridge and a sudden flight of stone steps came into view. I headed up slowly, leaning on my walking stick as my geta clattered loudly throughout the climb. At the top of the hill I paused to recover my breath, struck by the view across the city to the bay.

I threaded my way under cherry trees, branches swollen with blossoms, to a small shrine perched on the hill to the right of the teahouse. From there I could avoid notice while keeping watch on all the entrances and exits. I could hear high-pitched female laughter through the paper screens of the teahouse, and the low murmur of men's voices. As time passed, I noticed a pattern in the guests coming and going. One man lingered outside alone, moving from front to back of the building but never going inside. His distinctive Western dress, gray pants paired with a long navy overcoat, too heavy for the spring weather, seemed somewhat familiar. Had I seen him at the hotel, or on the train? I should have been more observant, but I had been too distracted by the novel experiences all morning. Had he followed Uchida from Tokyo?

It was over an hour before Iwata and the others emerged, their police escort coming out of the teahouse behind them and following them down the long flight of stairs. Uchida left a few minutes later and spotted me immediately, heading over toward the shrine to join me.

"I think you're being followed, Uchida-san," I said quickly, my voice low.

He nodded. "As expected. Don't worry, he won't take any interest in you. I have more business to conduct in Yokohama today, but you can head back to the station." He waved me forward and I headed over to the steps in front of him, my wooden geta clattering loudly as I picked my way down the stone stairs.

"I heard what you had to do to deliver the package," he said quietly after we had descended several steps. The man following him wasn't visible yet. "That was quick thinking, climbing through the windows."

I bowed my head. "It was an honor to be chosen for such an important mission."

"A lot of people would panic in that sort of situation. I can teach someone fighting techniques, but I can't teach them how to adapt to the unexpected. A few are naturally good at it; most will never master it. You, my boy," he glanced over at me, "are quite good."

"Thank you, Uchida-san," I said, flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

"Therefore, I've decided to give you a chance."

When he didn't explain after a few moments, I asked, "A chance at what?"

His Western cane swung in a quick arc, knocking my walking stick off the steps. "Try to hit me."

My eyes widened in surprise. "I couldn't -"

"You have until we reach the bottom of the steps."

I glanced down - we were already a third of the way there. The man trailing Uchida was visible now at the top of the hill, following us at a distance.

"If you can land a blow of any kind - just one - I will grant you a reward."

I calculated quickly and, tightening my grip on my walking stick with both hands, swung at his legs. He parried easily with his cane, throwing me off balance. I stumbled on the steps, scraping my knee while he continued descending at a slow and steady pace.

Raising my stick over my head, I approached him from behind and swung hard. He must have heard me approach because without even looking at me, he sidestepped quickly, throwing me off balance when my hit didn't connect, then he slammed the handle of his cane into my face. Hard. I fell back onto the steps, blood blossoming from my split lip and welling in my mouth. Breathing hard, I grasped my walking stick and climbed back to my feet, trying to think.

 _Don't panic_ , I reminded myself. That was the lesson he was trying to teach. _Adapt_. _Think_.

Looking ahead, I saw a couple start climbing the steps. That would force us to sweep to the left side to make room for them to pass. We would be near the bottom and I would only have one more chance, so there was no more room for error.

I spat blood into the dirt and pulled off my geta. The wooden shoes were throwing off my balance and also giving away my location. My toes and heels were torn up from earlier, but the pain of the rocks under my bare feet helped ground me. Moving quickly I caught up with Uchida just as the couple passed on his right. He seemed to sense my approach at the last moment, turning with his cane raised, but I threw both shoes at his head and shifted my balance as if I was attacking him from the left. The woman next to us squealed and her partner shouted, but I ignored them both. Uchida ducked and swept his cane at my knees; I jumped and changed direction, avoiding his blow and swinging my walking stick into his shoulder. It wasn't a particularly good hit, but at least I made contact.

Slowly he straightened, his lips curving into a slight smile as the couple raced up the stairs away from us. "Well done. You've earned your reward."

I dabbed the remaining blood away from my mouth with the sleeve of my kimono. "Thank you, Uchida-san. What is it?"

"Sensei," he said quietly. "You may call me sensei." With that he turned and quickly took the last few steps, striding down the street across the bridge and past the stores. The man trailing him brushed past me with a confused look and followed him through the town.

Bemused, I recovered my shoes and limped in the general direction of the train station. If he was to be my sensei, what would he teach me? Fukuzawa already saw to it that I could read in three languages, add numbers, and tell time. He had shown me how to care for his horse - a massive black stallion from a far away desert land, called an Arabian - and told me he would teach me to ride it as well. The older Joseon students at the military academy let me practice riflery with them. Now that the weather was getting warmer, boys were swimming in the pond on campus and showing me how to tread water. There was only one more thing I wanted to learn. One thing Fukuzawa frowned on. One thing that fascinated me, that I knew I'd be good at.

I wanted to learn to fight.

I didn't want to end up like my father, unable to raise my hand - or my blade - to defend myself or my family. Never again would I be at the mercy of market ladies who would spit on my bowed head and laugh. People would respect me. Or fear me. But they would never ignore me again.

The train ride back to Tokyo was simple, even relaxing, without the stress of a fortune in cash strapped to my back. I saved my money and sat with the crowds in the third-class carriage, but it was still amazing to realize how far I had traveled in the span of a few short hours. The distance from Hanseong to Chemulpo was similar, and I thought back to that long night when I had fled the city and walked hour after hour through the bitter cold to reach the port. Would Joseon ever build something like this modern railroad? It seemed unimaginable, but who could predict the future?

Indeed, the next few weeks were full of surprises. Oi or Kobayashi would seek me out at Fukuzawa's house with assignments, often pickups and deliveries. I made several more trips to Yokohama but didn't ask what was inside the packages I carried. I was never offered any additional payment, although the money I'd already received was a veritable fortune which I carefully hid away on top of the bookcases in my tower room.

I only saw Toyama once more during this time. I had been sent all the way to Tomioka, a shrine so far east of the Sumida River that I had to pay to ferry across Edo Bay. The shrine was so large that it had its own boat landing, and after I disembarked I strolled along the broad pathway of wide flagstones. It was no wonder that this shrine would be popular in a city full of former samurai. Tomioka was dedicated to Hachiman, the God of War. He had supposedly been born human as Emperor Ōjin, the son of Empress Jingū, after staying in her womb for twelve months during her conquest of ancient Joseon. He later became a Bodhisattva who offered protection to samurai and other warriors. The Tomioka shrine was a favorite spot for sumo wrestlers to make offerings to Hachiman and pray for success in their matches.

It was after sunset when I arrived, and with the peak cherry blossom viewing season over, the crowds had already begun to thin out. Stalls selling charms and food had few customers left. The path under the great stone torii was illuminated by the flickering light of the oil lamps inside the stone lanterns. I made my way up the steps to the shrine where I could hear two people engaged in a heated argument.

When I got closer I was surprised to recognize Kurushima-san, Toyama's samurai bodyguard. He was again wearing two swords thrust in his sash, the lamplight catching on the fine polish of their black lacquer scabbards with delicate pink cherry blossoms painted along the sides. The man he was arguing with was a bit shorter but heavily muscled, his kimono stretched wide not only across his shoulders but his waist and thighs. Despite his imposing stature, the man was sweating nervously, his voice high-pitched and defensive.

"I apologize, of course. I just got carried away. I was so close to ranking up, I couldn't bring myself to throw the match. It will never happen again, I swear it."

Kurushima, by contrast, was calm and composed. His arms were folded across his chest and his expression cold. "Do you have any idea how much money you cost us, Nishinoumi-zeki?"

I recognized the name. Although I had never attended a sumo match, everyone had been talking about the wrestler from Osaka who had been winning match after match since he came to Tokyo. Nishinoumi anxiously ran his hand up along his forehead to the top of his head, which was styled in samurai-fashion with his long hair tied up in a slick _chonmage_. "I will pay it all back. When I win the next match-"

"All your winnings for the next five years wouldn't be enough to pay back your debt. If you ever want to wrestle again, you have to prove to Toyama-san that you'll follow orders next time." With that Kurushima reached into the wide sleeve of his kimono and pulled out a square of white silk and a _tanto_ , its red lacquered scabbard no longer than the distance from my elbow to my wrist.

Nishinoumi looked like he was about to vomit. He fell to his knees and bowed low, his head scraping the pavement as he pleaded. "I swear to you, I won't make that mistake again."

Kurushima sighed in irritation and his gaze landed on me. I finished climbing the steps and bowed in greeting. "I was told to pick something up here?"

He nodded toward the sniveling man at his feet. "We've got to get it first. Here, take this." Thrusting the dagger and cloth at me, he moved behind Nishinoumi, reaching his left arm under the wrestler's left shoulder and locking his hands together across the man's chest, grumbling in disgust, "You're only making things worse. Have some dignity."

Surely Nishinoumi could have fought his way free if he had wanted to. Instead he seemed totally cowed, stretching out his left hand obediently, thick fingers trembling.

Kurushima looked at me consideringly. "Make it quick, boy. His little finger, just past the second joint."

Perhaps he thought I would balk. Or that I would make a mess of things, hacking awkwardly through the flesh. Instead I crouched on the shrine stones and drew the tanto, admiring the smooth feel of the hilt and glimmer of steel. Nothing like the crude implements I had used to butcher cows and pigs, this was a work of art. The hilt was wrapped in supple animal skin, much thinner than leather, most likely fish or rayskin. The flickering lantern light made the mirror-like blade look alive, the subtle grains in the metal flowing like water. I confidently examined the joints of the wrestler's finger to find the point of least resistance. Quick and sure, I pressed the single-sided blade down hard and the digit snapped off easily. Nishinoumi clutched his hand and reared back, howling, but I ignored him. I cleaned the blood from the blade and my hand with the sleeve of my kimono, then used the white cloth to pick up the fingertip, wrapping and typing it neatly.

Kurushima released the wrestler to writhe on the ground, then headed down the steps without a backward glance. I followed close behind while Nishinoumi's sobs continued to echo off the shrine walls.

The samurai tucked his arms into his sleeves and sighed. "Shameful. He should have offered his apology in person. He should have accepted his punishment like a man. Instead he's crying like a woman." He glanced over at me. "Let this be a lesson to you. It doesn't matter how big your opponent is. All that matters is your will. If you can intimidate them, if your will is stronger, then you can overpower even the largest foe."

I nodded and held out the silk wrapping, but he shook his head. "You earned it. You should make your delivery in person. Come on." We reached the landing and he hailed a _chokibune_ , much smaller than the ferry I had used earlier. The boatman guided us away from the Sumida River into the maze of canals. Relaxed, Kurushima leaned back in the boat, occasionally pointing out famous restaurants or shrines as we navigated north of Fukagawa and through the sumo district of Ryōgoku. Many large restaurants and teahouses perched right on the water's edge, their lanterns lighting up the dark and inviting customers to their docks. Finally we reached the geisha district of Yanagibashi and climbed ashore near the "Willow Bridge" for which the area was named.

I followed Kurushima past a line of high wooden walls, threading our way through a cluster of waiting rickshaws, to enter an imposing set of doors with an elegant plaque that read, 'Kamesei'. We passed through the doors into a lush garden with a small pond, lanterns, and mossy stepping stones suggested an air of relaxation. However from the sounds coming from the building I would guess that very little relaxing was happening. The balconies on the second floor had their doors slid open to the night air, and from the party rooms I could hear the strains of an expertly-played shamisen, the beat of a drum, and raucous laughter. To my surprise, Kurushima passed his long sword to a young man at the front door, who respectfully and carefully placed it in a tall sword stand against the wall which already contained a half dozen other weapons. His short sword, however, stayed in his sash. We removed our shoes and headed upstairs, a little maid guiding us to a set of doors, kneeling and sliding them open for us.

A dozen men sat in the banquet room in two rows facing each other, each seated on a cushion behind small tables laden with trays of food. Many of them were in their twenties or thirties, none wore Western dress, and most still had their short swords as well. Young women in elaborate kimono were scattered around, pouring sake or chatting with polite smiles. Doors along the far side were open and I could see the Sumida River glistening in the moonlight past the balcony. A haze of smoke drifted through the air, both from pipes and incense burning on a low table along the back.

At the head of the room, seated in front of a _tokonoma_ displaying a simple scroll and delicate vase of fresh purple irises, Toyama-san was laughing heartily as a woman leaned in to whisper something in his ear. I could see Uchida seated between the other men with their backs to the balcony, but clearly Toyama was the center of the party tonight.

Kurushima paused in the center of the room and bowed low, while I stood behind him, to his right, making sure to bow even lower. Toyama waved us forward with a shout. "You're late! Where is he?"

Kurushima walked forward rapidly and dropped to his knees in front of Toyama, bowing so that his hands and forehead pressed against the finely woven tatami mat. Nervously, I followed suit.

" _Oyabun_ , I failed." He rose to meet Toyama's gaze, and I sat up as well. "Nishinoumi-zeki was too afraid to come here and face you."

Toyama leaned back with a scowl and scratched at his belly. "Young people these days," he grumbled. "Where is their loyalty? Their values? When a man has no honor, he has nothing!" He pounded his fist on the lacquered table, making the assortment of small porcelain dishes jump. "I trust you punished him properly?"

Kurushima nodded at me and I stood, walking forward with my head down and arms extended, offering the blood-stained bundle to Toyama. He took it and I retreated, shuffling backwards, resuming my seat just as Toyama untied the furoshiki and started laughing.

"Well done. That's a lesson he won't soon forget." He held up the severed finger and the other men murmured their approval while the women let out soft gasps.

"Credit goes to Ishida-san," Kurushima said. "He not only carried the package, he wielded the blade with a steady hand."

I sat straighter when Toyama's gaze fell on me. I pulled the tanto out of my kimono sleeve and set it on the mat in front of my knees. In the bright light of the room, I could more clearly see the artwork lining one side of the red lacquered scabbard. Raised copper depicted a dragon which wound, serpentlike, around a blunt-edged sword.

"Young cub, you continue to impress me. I believe you've earned a reward."

I bowed again, my forehead to the mat. "I couldn't accept. It is an honor to be of service."

"Of course. But a young man needs a blade, does he not?"

I sat up, glancing at Toyama's face in my surprise.

He pointed to the dagger. "Do you recognize that symbol?" When I shook my head, he explained, "Kurikara, the blade that slays demons and cuts through ignorance. It's wielded by Fudō Myō-ō, whose wrath protects believers and subdues evil. The Immovable One. A good patron for a steady-handed boy." Before I could protest again, he clapped his hands and maidservants scurried quickly into the room. "Set two more places for my guests. And let's have some music!" He turned to the woman at his side. "Get your shamisen, my dear! It has been too long since I heard your singing."

As the women shuffled into place, I picked up the precious dagger and returned it carefully to my kimono sleeve. Kurushima and I moved to the end of the far row that looked out onto the river as the maids brought out more cushions and low tables. As we settled ourselves comfortably, he leaned in close, one hand braced against the tatami mat.

"Since you handled yourself so well tonight," he said quietly, "are you ready for something more challenging?"

I nodded. "What is it?"

"We need another package delivered. But you'll have to pick it up in Kyūshū."

My mouth dropped open in surprise. The island of Kyūshū was over two thousand li to the south, a distance that could take weeks to travel. Riding the train to Yokohama was one thing; navigating a journey that far was something else entirely.

Kurushima grinned. "You should see your expression. Don't worry, you won't be alone. Pack lightly. Be ready at sunrise."

I bowed. "I'll be ready. I won't disappoint you." My mind raced, wondering what sort of delivery could possibly require such a long trip. Money? Weapons? Fingers? Before I could ask any more questions the the maids returned, balancing heavy trays as they sank to their knees in front of our tables.

An overwhelming assortment of dishes were placed before us - and although I had become used to fresh and delicious food while living with Fukuzawa, I had never seen anything prepared like this. Each dish was tiny, but crafted with a degree of artistry that made it almost a shame to eat it. Rice was pressed into the shape of a sakura blossom, flakes of red tuna giving it a soft blush of pink color. A small bowl of light broth contained one perfect clam framed by floating chrysanthemum flowers. Grilled sea bream nestled on steamed bamboo leaves, a daikon radish carved into a delicate plum blossom, sweet egg rolls topped with razor-thin slices of curling lotus root - the courses kept coming, each shape and color complementing each other perfectly, evoking the beauty of spring.

A young woman settled elegantly onto her knees between us, holding out a jar of sake with a bow. Her kimono was a brilliant purple, like the iris in the tokonoma, with just a hint visible of the line of her scarlet nagajuban. Her hair was waxed into elegant sweeps on either side of her head, pinned with a sprig of wisteria blossoms. Her face was powdered white but her bow of a mouth was blood red, commanding attention.

"Ah, Momomaru, how long has it been since your debut? You are so refined now," Kurushima said smoothly.

She held one hand to her mouth to cover a giggle. "You are too kind. I must admit, when I heard that Toyama-sama was hosting a banquet, I was hoping to see you again." She moved to fill his cup, tilting the jar as far as she could, but only a few drops came out. "I'm so sorry, it seems I've run out." With a quick bow, she excused herself, "I'll return with more right away,"

When she was out of earshot, I leaned over to ask Kurushima, "Is she a geisha?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. She's still _hangyoku_ \- in training. The young ones with the bright kimono are hangyoku and the older ones, in more conservative dress, are full geisha. You can also tell by their actions." He leaned closer and lowered his voice, "A true geisha would have noticed she was out of sake before trying to serve it."

The criticism surprised me. "You two seemed friendly. Do you know her well?"

He shrugged. "What's to know? They're all the same." He pointed to the opposite side of the room at the geisha and hangyoku who were pouring sake for the other guests. "They giggle. They flatter. They pretend that you're the only one they want. But be warned, Ishida-kun, in truth there's only one thing they really want. Your money."

"Maybe she really likes you. She didn't talk to me at all."

"Of course not, she doesn't know if you're worth her interest yet. Nothing's free, you know. If she thinks you have money, she'll ask to meet you outside the party. But be warned, you'll be charged for her time." Momomaru reentered the room and Kurushima whispered, "Watch and learn."

"Honorable gentlemen, let me fill your cups now," she said as she knelt between us again, her voice high and thin as if she was out of breath. She filled Kurushima's cup and then turned to me.

"Momomaru, let me introduce you to Ishida Sho," Kurushima said. "Forgive him for being shy earlier, this is his first time meeting a geisha. He's a student at Keio University now, so he'll probably be running his own company in a few years."

I opened my mouth to correct him - I hadn't even passed the entrance exam yet - but the girl's face lit up.

"A student! I love students! So knowledgeable, so fashionable. What are you studying? Business?" She leaned close to me to pour the sake, the nape of her neck a mere hand's breadth away. Her kimono rode low on her back, revealing a length of bare skin emphasized by white powder that exposed a suggestive v-shape of unpainted flesh.

"Ah, I haven't decided yet."

"And how long have you known Toyama-sama?"

"Not long."

"I see," she said. Her gaze started to drift away and I felt a strange urge to see if I could win back her attention.

"I've been busy riding the train to Yokohama. On business. Several times."

Kurushima's shoulders began to shake with laughter at my clumsy bragging, but I won my objective - Momomaru turned back to me with wide eyes, as if I was the most fascinating person she had ever met.

"The train! How exciting! I've always wanted to ride the train, but it's too expensive. Perhaps you could take me with you next time? I've heard Yokohama has gorgeous teahouses!"

"Yes, the Teahouse of One Hundred Steps. I've, uh, been there."

"That would be wonderful. We would have such fun if we could go there together," she cooed. "Try the sake, Ishida-san."

I picked up the small cup and tried to drink it in one fast gulp, as I had seen the other men do, but just then Momomaru shifted so that her thigh pressed briefly against mine and I choked in surprise, spitting out the strong rice wine and coughing loudly.

Kurushima and Momomaru burst out laughing, and I blushed in embarrassment. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed, but most of them were cheering on Toyama who was standing now, dancing in front of of the geisha as they played music, his face flushed.

"Let's have the dancers!" Toyama called out cheerfully. "Who wants to go first?"

The geisha put their heads together in brief conversation, then one rose and shuffled over to Toyama with a bow. She wore a darkly colored kimono, a blue so deep it almost looked black, with subtle ripples in the pattern like waves flowing along the edges of the cloth. Her fan, however, was red and gold, and as she paused in the front of the room in a formal pose, waiting for the music to begin, it was the fan that drew my eye.

When the dance started, Momomaru leaned in close again to interpret each move for me. "See the gentle flutter of the fan?" she asked. "She is sitting by the side of the river, longing for her lover, watching the lanterns floating on the water." When the dancer turned her free hand, palm rising toward the sky, Momomaru explained, "She sees a bird hovering overhead, a skylark, and she realizes that, because love is fleeting, it is precious."

Precious. Skylark. Love.

My heart began to pound unsteadily, my fists clenched. Those words instantly transported me back to Joseon, stuffed inside the yangban girl's luxurious palanquin, the cries of my parents as they were beaten to death still echoing in my ears. The fragile girl in front of me, eyes wide, declaring that my life was precious. Even knowing the filth I sprang from, even seeing the blood smeared on my face, she was unafraid. She was pure, unspoiled by the meanness of the world, beautiful like nothing else I had even seen.

And what did I do? I cut her heart with my sharp words. I soiled her skirt with my dirty blood. As if I wanted to prove her faith wrong, to show her that there was nothing precious about me at all.

Momomaru shifted slightly against my side and suddenly I could see her bare toes, their nails painted, peeping out from beneath the red edge of her nagajuban. Such a suggestive exposure was surely intended to captivate me, but instead, I was repulsed by the vulgar display. I longed instead for the sweetness, the purity that I had rejected, for the soft sweep of pink silk against my fingers.

I held my cup out again and again for more sake, choking it down, ignoring the way it seared my throat. It stoked a fire in my belly that burned through the memories haunting me and left my brain floating in a welcome haze of smoke, obscuring my regrets, dulling my shame. When the party finally broke up around midnight, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was still able to stand without swaying, hold down the contents of my stomach, and find my way home. And better yet, the pain of my past remained at bay where it belonged. All I had to think about now was doing a good job tomorrow. Whether or not I was a precious person, or deserved love - if I had to, I would drink until I could keep those thoughts buried forever.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Chokibune \- A small Japanese boat with one oar, often used to navigate the canals of Tokyo and transport men to and from the several pleasure quarters in the city, especially Yoshiwara.  
Chonmage \- Traditional Japanese men's topknot worn by samurai and sumo wrestlers.  
Hangyoku \- Meaning "half-jewel" or "half-price", the term for an apprentice geisha in Tokyo; in Kyoto they are called maiko.  
Kanji \- One of several writing systems in Japan, these ideographs were adapted from original Chinese characters. Roughly 2,000 must be memorized for sufficient literacy to read a newspaper.  
Oyabun \- The boss of a Japanese yakuza (mafia) gang, the term suggests a role that is a combination of foster-father, teacher, and lord, and demands absolute loyalty from his kobun, or follower / son.  
Ryōtei/Ryōriya \- A traditional Japanese restaurant, in Tokyo especially, where geisha can be hired to perform in private dining or banquet rooms. This is in contrast to Kyoto, where _geiko_ typically appear at _ochaya_ , "teahouses".  
Tanto \- A Japanese dagger roughly 12 inches (30 cm) in length.  
Tokonoma \- A small alcove that serves as the focal point of a formal Japanese room, displaying artistic items such as a scroll, pottery, or seasonal flower arrangement.  
Zeki \- Japanese honorific given to high-ranking sumo wrestlers.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:**

 **"Biography of Kintaro Hattori." Seiko Museum, Seiko Holdings, 2019.**

 **Bird, Isabella Lucy.** ** _Unbeaten Tracks in Japan_** **. 3rd ed., John Murray, 1888. Internet Archive.**

 **Downer, Lesley.** ** _Women of the Pleasure Quarters: The Secret History of the Geisha_** **. New York, Broadway Books, 2001.**

 **Ericson, Steven J.** ** _The Sound of the Whistle: Railroads and the State in Meiji Japan_** **. Harvard UP, 1996.**

 **Fujimoto, Taizoh.** ** _The Nightside of Japan_** **. London, T. Werner Laurie, 1914. Internet Archive.**

 **"Fukagawa: A Blue-Collar Working District."** ** _Edomatsu_** **. , National Association of Japan-America Societies.**

 **Kuroda, Joe. "Rikishi of Old: The 16th Yokozuna Nishinoumi Kajiro I (1855-1908)."** ** _Sumo Fan Magazine_** **, no. 22, Dec. 2008.**

 **Schumacher, Mark. "Fudō Myō-ō."** ** _A-to-Z Dictionary of Japan's Buddhist Deities_** **, Onmark Productions, 2014.**

 **Seidensticker, Edward.** ** _Tokyo from Edo to Showa 1867-1989: The Emergence of the World's Greatest City_** **. Tuttle, 2011.**

 **Sinclaire, Clive.** ** _Samurai: The Weapons and Spirit of the Japanese Warrior_** **. Guilford, Lyons Press, 2004.**


	10. Chapter 10: Honey and Hurt

**Title:** Merchant of Death

 **Author:** setlib

 **Rating:** T-rated for violence

 **Pairings:** Gu Dong-mae x Ae-sin

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to any characters from Mr. Sunshine. References to historical persons and events are used in entirely fictitious ways.

 **NOTE TO READERS** **\- Please don't skip over the middle chapters, especially the odd-numbered ones that are from Gu Dong-mae's point of view, like #5, #7 and #9. They introduce important characters and set up future events!**

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **Merchant of Death, Chapter 10: Honey and Hurt  
** _Hanseong, Joseon. Fall 1885._

I leaned closer to the paper screen, drawn to the whispers and giggles coming from _unni's_ room. Ae-sun was nearly fifteen years old, and grandfather had chosen today as the most auspicious time to hold her _gyerye_ celebration. Afterwards she would officially be a woman, and soon her engagement would almost certainly be announced. I tried not to be jealous of all the activity that swirled around her - a feast laid out, neighboring women filling the courtyard with gifts, their daughters fawning over my cousin. She had always loved being the center of attention, and today her excitement was at a fever pitch.

"Ms. Haman!" The screen slid open with a sharp crack, Ae-sun leaning out of the doorframe to call down the hall to the kitchen. "What's taking so long? We're out of tea!" She looked down and spotted me crouched outside the door, her lip curling with disgust.

I tried to distract her with some flattery before she could send me away. "Unni, you're so pretty today! The _sagyusam_ is beautiful on you."

Ae-sun straightened proudly and ran her hands down the front of the ceremonial green silk jacket. It was split into four panels at her waist, the edges embroidered in black and lined with lucky symbols. I peered behind her to see the other young girls helping themselves to the trays of tea and cakes in her room, passing around a precious jar of honey to add even more sweetness. A table held the ceremonial cap and hair rod that would later mark her transition from the long braid of a young girl to the elegantly twisted chignon of an adult woman. But age did not always bring maturity, and she stared down at me with eyes narrowed in irritation.

"Little pest, scurrying outside the door like a rat. Go away. No one wants you here."

I blushed with embarrassment. I could see her guests leaning to get a look at me, covering their mouths with their hands to stifle more giggles.

"But Ms. Haman said I could join-"

Ae-sun leaned down and grabbed my arm roughly, dragging me up and after her as she stalked down the hall. "You want to join us? There's one thing I need you to do."

"Of course! I'll help-"

"Shhh!" Finger to her lips and a scowl on her face, Ae-sun paused outside the kitchen door. The servants were focused on the delicate process of deep-frying a fresh batch of _yakgwa_ , the sweet, flower-shaped cakes floating in hot sesame oil before being drained and then soaked in honey-ginger syrup. Ae-sun and her friends had been snacking on them all morning but I hadn't gotten one yet. My mouth watered at the smell, and I was so distracted that I almost didn't notice when she reached into the kitchen and swiped the keys to the storage shed when no one was looking.

"What are you-"

"Keep your mouth shut," she growled, yanking me down the stairs. I barely had time to slip on a pair of shoes before she dragged me through the back garden, past the well, until I could no longer hear the sound of talking by our neighbors gathered in the front courtyard for her ceremony. She used the key to unlock the shed, then pushed me inside. I tripped over the threshold and fell hard on my knees with a cry.

"Unni, why are you mad at me? What did I do?" I braced myself against the rough wooden planks of the storehouse floor and turned to look up at her.

She crossed her arms and laughed. "What did you do? You were born. That's what you did. Your very existence is an embarrassment to me, and brings shame upon our whole family. Do you actually think that my friends and I would let a bastard join us?"

Shock hit me like a blow to my gut, robbing me of the air in my lungs. "I'm not!" I gasped. "I'm your cousin!"

"Oh, you might be my uncle's child, but what do we know about your mother?" she said with a sneer. "Probably some whore or thief who seduced him after he went to Japan. We don't know for sure that they were ever really married. We don't know anything about her family. Was she even Korean? For all we know, you could be a slave's child, a butcher's brat, or a half-Japanese mongrel."

I shook my head but couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to contradict her. Because everything she said was true. I had never known my parents. Never even seen their faces. They both died in Japan shortly after I was born. I was delivered to my grandfather's house in Hanseong as an orphaned infant accompanied only by two urns holding the soft ashes of my parents. But as many times as I had felt the sharp sting of loneliness, had wondered what my parents had been like, it had never occured to me to be afraid of the answer.

"Your mother must have been a strange woman, and that's why you've got such odd ways." She snorted. "Ignoring your needlepoint, and spending all day trying to learn Chinese. Why? Education is useless for a woman! No wonder the other girls don't want to play with you."

Ae-sun leaned down and stuck a finger in my face. "Don't you dare show yourself again and try to ruin my special day. No one's going to miss you. No one wants you here anyway." With that she slammed the shed door closed and secured the lock with a cold metal click.

I sat frozen on the floor, listening to the receding sound of her footsteps as she stalked away. My stomach churned as if I needed to throw up. Did people think there was something foul inside me? Some tainted blood that showed itself in my words, my actions? I already knew my behavior was a direct reflection on my family. But to think that my mistakes would lead others to conclude that my mother was beneath contempt - that was a terrible responsibility. I was the only one left in the world who could defend her honor.

I knew what I had to do. I would prove to everyone that my mother was a noble woman, not a thief or a mongrel. I would demonstrate this every day through my impeccable behavior, my poise, my elegance. My face would become a mask, frozen in a state of perfect propriety. I would be unfailingly polite, obedient, and respectful. I would become the embodiment of aristocratic confidence. All my unruly fears, my impatience, my desires, I would hide, deep down, and make sure Ae-sun and the other girls never glimpsed those weaknesses again, could never use them as weapons against my parents' honor.

As the sun set, sending sharp rays of light to pierce between the boards of the storehouse door, I sat with my arms around my knees. Hours passed as the guests feasted and left, and our household visited the ancestral tablets to complete the ceremony. The early autumn night grew cold, and still no one came to find me. I was shivering by the time I heard Ms. Haman frantically calling my name, but I responded calmly. By the time the key was sent for and the door unlocked, I had straightened painfully and set an impartial expression upon my face. Ms. Haman burst through the doorway, holding a lantern high, groaning with relief when she found me. She pulled me to her in a tight embrace, sniffling, but I didn't match her tears with any of my own.

"No need to cry, Ms. Haman. I'm quite well," I said, pulling back stiffly.

"Have you been here all this time?" She leaned closer to look at my face. "How did you get locked in here?"

"I locked her in," Ae-sun said from outside. I stepped over the threshold to find the servants, Aunt Jo, even Grandfather gathering in the back courtyard.

Aunt Jo frowned. "Why would you do something like that?"

Ae-sun held out an empty jar of honey. "I caught her stealing from the storeroom."

I felt a gasp of shock rise up and bit it back. I held my tongue, smoothed my expression, and maintained an outward mask of calm.

"That can't be," Ms. Haman protested, following me out of the storeroom. She turned to Aunt Jo. "Agassi would never do something like that."

"I'm not a thief," I said quietly, proud of the steadiness of my voice.

"She was jealous of me," Ae-sun insisted. "She was going to try to ruin my special day. I had to lock her up until the guests had left."

Grandfather held up a hand to stop the argument. "Ae-sun is the elder. As an adult, we must believe what she said." He turned to Aunt Jo. "Administer a punishment of ten lashes for theft."

Ms. Haman howled, following after Grandfather as he left the courtyard and begging him to reconsider. The other servants rubbed their hands together, pleading for mercy, but I kept my lips tightly sealed. I would not be seen grovelling.

Ae-sun folded her arms with a satisfied smirk. "Serves you right-"

"Quiet, you," Aunt Jo snapped. "You've done quite enough for one day. Leave us." Ae-sun spun with a flounce of silk and stalked back to the house. Aunt Jo stepped past me into the storeroom, returning shortly with a thin bamboo stick. "I'm sorry about this," she said, raising a hand to my shoulder.

I sidestepped, avoiding her touch. "Of course you should believe your own daughter." I left it unsaid that, if my own mother were here, she'd surely argue on my behalf.

Aunt Jo shook her head. "I know Ae-sun all too well. Which is why I don't believe her."

I nodded slightly in acknowledgement before walking to the _pyung-sang_ , slipping off my shoes and stepping up onto the wooden bench. I hadn't been lashed in years, not since I knocked over my oil lamp and nearly set fire to the house when I was five years old. The injustice of it burned my heart, but my new resolve would not waver. I would behave as a noblewoman should, submitting without complaint. I may still be a child, but I would demonstrate all the integrity and maturity that my cousin lacked. The male servants turned away out of respect as I pulled up my chima and several layers of silken underskirts and bloomers to reveal a portion of my bare legs over my socks.

Without another word of apology, Aunt Jo carried out her duty as well, standing beside me and delivering a sharp crack across my calves. I flinched the first time, but took firm hold of myself and stayed frozen in place for each lash after that, my gaze trained into the distance and my breathing forced to remain slow and calm. It wasn't until Ms. Haman reappeared toward the end and I saw the agony on her face that my first tears began to well in response, but I held them back. It was not the pain that upset me, although of course the lashes hurt. It was the dishonor to my parents, through me, that I would do anything to avoid.

That night, Ms. Haman was unusually quiet as she helped me prepare for bed. She didn't say a word as she spread salve over my tender calves, her lips pressed tight together. She spent extra time brushing my hair, taking out the camellia oil and smoothing it through every strand of hair with her fingers as she sat behind me. I felt myself relax under her care, until finally the fear that had been worrying at the edges of my mind all day slipped out.

"Do you think my parents would be proud of me?"

Her fingers faltered, stilled. She drew in a shaky breath before resuming her task. "I was still young when I started working in the house, but I remember the young master was 15 years old when I first met him. You remind me of him so much."

I turned to look at her in surprise. "I do? How?"

"You got your beauty from him. He had a nice smooth forehead and a straight nose, just like you." She touched the tip of my nose with her finger, leaving a drop of sweet-scented camellia oil behind, and I felt myself smile. "When I look at you - your eyes when you're stubborn, your lips when you're upset - are just like your father's. I get so surprised."

"Besides my appearance, though, what about the way I act? Did he get into trouble too?"

Ms. Haman took my hands between her own. "You're smart like he was. And exact in everything. But also nice to the servants. Everyone who worked here adored Master Sang-wan, just like they adore you. But," her voice lowered to a whisper and she leaned closer as if sharing a secret, "he was scared of _everything_."

That startled a laugh out of me. "What do you mean?"

"Snakes. Spiders. Even tiny little mice. Everything would make him jump. He was so easily startled. So, you must have got it from your mother."

"What?"

She stroked my cheek. "Your courage, Agassi. Your boldness. Your mother must have been an incredibly brave woman. I saw her in you tonight, when you stood so straight and strong. She probably wasn't an obedient woman, because you're not an obedient child. But when I see you stand up for what you believe is just, then I know - your mother must have been a righteous woman." She pulled me close for a hug and whispered in my hair. "I know your parents are looking down on you right now, and they're so, so proud."

The tears came now; nothing could have held them back. I buried my face in Ms. Haman's warm shoulder and wept with regret for the parents I would never know, wept with frustration for the injustices I had to face, and wept with gratitude for Ms. Haman's steadfast support.

I would honor my parents with my life by being smart and kind like my father, so that I would be respected like he was. But I wouldn't be afraid to be disobedient every now and then, if the cause was just.

I was, after all, my mother's daughter too.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

 **GLOSSARY:**

Gyerye / Kyerye - Coming-of-age ceremony for Korean girls. In the Joseon Dynasty it was typically held by age fifteen or before the girl was married. In modern times, this ceremony is celebrated on the third Monday in May for all men or women turning nineteen years old that year. For boys it's called Gwallye/Kwallye.

Pyung-sang \- Outdoor flat wooden table, often used for sitting like a bench.

Sagyusam \- Special green jacket, with broad sleeves, embroidered edges, and divided in the center, worn by a girl at her gyerye.  
Unni \- Korean term meaning older sister.

Yakgwa (or Gwajul) - Type of sweet Korean confection (yumil-gwa or hangwa) for special celebrations made from wheat flour, sesame, wine and ginger; deep-fried and soaked in honey. Yakgwa is a small size, sometimes flower-shaped, and in recent times, somewhat flat.

 **WORKS CONSULTED:**

Achillesbriseis. "Joseon Fashion Show. Lingerie and Underwear Special Edition." _Feeding My Procrastination_ , Wordpress, 24 May 2013.

Cho, Hyo-soon. "Korean Clothes and Fabrics." _Koreana: Korean Art & Culture_, vol. 9, no. 3, Fall 1995, pp. 12-19. Issuu.

Lee, E-Wha. _Korea's Pastimes and Customs: A Social History_. Translated by Ju-Hee Park, Homa & Sekey Books, 2006.

Williams, Victoria. _Celebrating Life Customs around the World: From Baby Showers to Funerals_. ABC-CLIO, 2016.

Yun, Seo-seok. _Festive Occasions: The Customs in Korea_. Seoul, Ewha Womans UP, 2008.


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